PIPEFULS 


BOOKS  BY 
CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

HIDE  AND  SEEK 

KATHLEEN 

MINCE  PIE 

PARNASSUS  ON  WHEELS 

PIPEFULS 

ROCKING  HORSE 

SHANDYGAFF 

SONGS  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

THE  HAUNTED  BOOKSHOP 

TRAVELS  IN  PHILADELPHIA 


PIPEFULS 


BY 
CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


ILLUSTRATED 

BY 
WALTER   JACK   DUNCAN 


GAEDEN  CITY,  N.  T.,  AND  TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 
1921 


K, 


X   . 


COPYRIGHT,    1920,    BY 
DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE   &  COMPANY 

ALL  EIGHTS    RESERVED,    INCLUDING   THAT   OP   TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN   LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING   THE   SCANDINAVIAN 


75362-5 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED 

TO 
THREE  MEN 

HULBERT  FOOTNER 

EUGENE  SAXTON 
WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 

BECAUSE,  IF  I  MENTIONED  ONLY  ONE 
OF  THEM,  I  WOULD  HAVE  TO 

WRITE  BOOKS 
TO  INSCRIBE  TO  THE  OTHER  TWO 


336 


PREFACE 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE  said  that  Eve  was  "edified 
out  of  the  rib  of  Adam."  This  little  book  was 
edified  (for  the  most  part)  out  of  the  ribs  of  two 
friendly  newspapers,  The  New  York  Evening  Post 
and  The  Philadelphia  Evening  Public  Ledger.  To 
them,  and  to  The  Bookman,  Everybody's,  and  The 
Publishers'  Weekly,  I  am  grateful  for  permission  to 
reprint. 

Tristram  Shandy  said,  "When  a  man  is  hemm'd  in 
by  two  indecorums,  and  must  commit  one  of  'em 
let  him  chuse  which  he  will,  the  world  will  blame 
him."  Now  it  is  one  indecorum  to  let  this  col 
lection  of  small  sketches  go  out  (as  they  do)  un- 
revised  and  just  as  they  assaulted  the  defenceless 
reader  of  the  daily  prints;  and  the  other  indecorum 
would  be  to  take  fragments  of  this  kind  too  gravely, 
and  attempt  by  more  careful  disposition  of  their 
pallid  members  to  arrange  them  into  some  appear 
ance  of  painless  decease.  As  Gilbert  Chesterton 
said  (I  wish  I  could  say,  on  a  similar  occasion): 
"Their  vices  are  too  vital  to  be  improved  with  a 
blue  pencil,  or  with  anything  I  can  think  of,  except 
dynamite." 

vii 


Preface 

These  sketches  gave  me  pain  to  write;  they  will 
give  the  judicious  patron  pain  to  read;  therefore  we 
are  quits.  I  think,  as  I  look  over  their  slattern 
paragraphs,  of  that  most  tragic  hour — it  falls  about 
4  p.  M.  in  the  office  of  an  evening  newspaper — when 
the  unhappy  compiler  tries  to  round  up  the  breedings 
of  the  day  and  still  get  home  in  time  for  supper. 
And  yet  perhaps  the  will- to-live  is  in  them,  for  are 
they  not  a  naked  exhibit  of  the  antics  a  man  will 
commit  in  order  to  earn  a  living?  In  extenuation  it 
may  be  pleaded  that  none  of  them  are  so  long  that 
they  may  not  be  mitigated  by  an  accompanying  pipe 
of  tobacco. 

THE  AUTHOR. 

Roslyn,  Long  Island, 
July,  1920. 


vifl 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface  .      .....     . vii 

On  Making  Friends 3 

Thoughts  on  Cider 10 

One-Night  Stands 18 

The  Owl  Train     .........  25 

Safety  Pins     ...........  29 

Confessions  of  a  "Colyumist" 34 

Moving 42 

Surf  Fishing    ..     .^    ......  48 

"Idolatry"      ..........  52 

The  First  Commencement  Address  ....  60 

The  Downfall  of  George  Snipe    .....  63 

Meditations  of  a  Bookseller 66 

If  Buying  a  Meal  Were  Like  Buying  a  House  71 

Adventures  in  High  Finance 74 

On  Visiting  Bookshops 78 

A  Discovery 83 

Silas  Orrin  Howes 91 

ix 


x      Contents 

PAGE 

Joyce  Kilmer 97 

Tales  of  Two  Cities 109 

I.     Philadelphia: 

An  Early  Train 

Ridge  Avenue 

The  University  and  the  Urchin 

Pine  Street 

Pershing  in  Philadelphia 

Fall  Fever 

Two  Days  Before  Christmas 

In  West  Philadelphia 

Horace  Traubel 

II.     New  York: 

The  Anatomy  of  Manhattan 

Vesey  Street 

Brooklyn  Bridge 

Three  Hours  for  Lunch 

Passage  from  Some  Memoirs 

First  Lessons  in  Clowning 

House  Hunting 

Long  Island  Revisited 

On  Being  in  a  Hurry 

Confessions  of  a  Human  Globule 

Notes  on  a  Fifth  Avenue  Bus 

Sunday  Morning 

Venison  Pasty 

Grand  Avenue,  Brooklyn 

On  Waiting  for  the  Curtain  to  Go  Up    ...  236 

Musings  of  John  Mistletoe 240 

The  World's  Most  Famous  Oration    ...  242 

On  Laziness 244 

Teaching  the  Prince  to  Take  Notes    ...  249 

A  City  Notebook 253 

On  Going  to  Bed 270 


PIPEFULS 


PIPEFULS 


ON  MAKING  FRIENDS 


/CONSIDERING  that  most  friendships  are 
V^  made  by  mere  hazard,  how  is  it  that  men  find 
themselves  equipped  and  fortified  with  just  the 
friends  they  need?  We  have  heard  of  men  who 
asserted  that  they  would  like  to  have  more  money, 
or  more  books,  or  more  pairs  of  pyjamas;  but  we  have 
never  heard  of  a  man  saying  that  he  did  not  have 
enough  friends.  For,  while  one  can  never  have  too 
many  friends,  yet  those  one  has  are  always  enough. 
They  satisfy  us  completely.  One  has  never  met  a 
man  who  would  say,  "I  wish  I  had  a  friend  who 

[3] 


Pipefuls 

would  combine  the  good  humour  of  A,  the  mystical 
enthusiasm  of  B,  the  love  of  doughnuts  which  is  such 
an  endearing  quality  in  C,  and  who  would  also  have 
the  habit  of  giving  Sunday  evening  suppers  like  D, 
and  the  well-stocked  cellar  which  is  so  deplorably 
lacking  in  E."  No;  the  curious  thing  is  that  at  any 
time  and  in  any  settled  way  of  life  a  man  is  generally 
provided  with  friends  far  in  excess  of  his  desert,  and 
also  in  excess  of  his  capacity  to  absorb  their  wisdom 
and  affectionate  attentions. 

There  is  some  pleasant  secret  behind  this,  a  secret 
that  none  is  wise  enough  to  fathom.  The  infinite 
fund  of  disinterested  humane  kindliness  that  is 
adrift  in  the  world  is  part  of  the  riddle,  the  insoluble 
riddle  of  life  that  is  born  in  our  blood  and  tissue.  It 
is  agreeable  to  think  that  no  man,  save  by  his  own 
gross  fault,  ever  went  through  life  unfriended,  with 
out  companions  to  whom  he  could  stammer  his 
momentary  impulses  of  sagacity,  to  whom  he  could 
turn  in  hours  of  loneliness.  It  is  not  even  necessary 
to  know  a  man  to  be  his  friend.  One  can  sit  at  a 
lunch  counter,  observing  the  moods  and  whims  of  the 
white-coated  pie-passer,  and  by  the  time  you  have 
juggled  a  couple  of  fried  eggs  you  will  have  caught 
some  grasp  of  his  philosophy  of  life,  seen  the  quick 
edge  and  tang  of  his  humour,  memorized  the  shrewd 
ness  of  his,  worldly  insight  and  been  as  truly  stimu 
lated  as  if  you  had  spent  an  evening  with  your 
favourite  parson. 
[4] 


On  Making  Friends 

If  there  were  no  such  thing  as  friendship  existing 
to-day,  it  would  perhaps  be  difficult  to  understand 
what  it  is  like  from  those  who  have  written  about  it. 
We  have  tried,  from  time  to  time,  to  read  Emerson's 
enigmatic  and  rather  frigid  essay.  It  seems  that 
Emerson  must  have  put  his  cronies  to  a  severe  test 
before  admitting  them  to  the  high-vaulted  and 
rather  draughty  halls  of  his  intellect.  There  are 
fine  passages  in  his  essay,  but  it  is  intellectualized, 
bloodless,  heedless  of  the  trifling  oddities  of  human 
intercourse  that  make  friendship  so  satisfying.  He 
seems  to  insist  upon  a  sterile  ceremony  of  mutual 
self-improvement,  a  kind  of  religious  ritual,  a  pro 
found  interchange  of  doctrines  between  soul  and 
soul.  His  friends  (one  gathers)  are  to  be  antisepti- 
cated,  all  the  poisons  and  pestilence  of  their  faulty 
humours  are  to  be  drained  away  before  they  may 
approach  the  white  and  icy  operating  table  of  his 
heart.  "Why  insist,"  he  says,  "on  rash  personal 
relations  with  your  friend?  Why  go  to  his  house,  or 
know  his  wife  and  family?"  And  yet  does  not  the 
botanist  like  to  study  the  flower  in  the  soil  where  it 
grows? 

Polonius,  too,  is  another  ancient  supposed  to  be 
an  authority  on  friendship.  The  Polonius  family 
must  have  been  a  thoroughly  dreary  one  to  live  with; 
we  have  often  thought  that  poor  Ophelia  would  have 
gone  mad  anyway,  even  if  there  had  been  no  Hamlet. 
Laertes  preaches  to  Ophelia;  Polonius  preaches  to 

[5] 


Pipefuls 

Laertes.  Laertes  escaped  by  going  abroad,  but  the 
girl  had  to  stay  at  home.  Hamlet  saw  that  pithy  old 
Polonius  was  a  preposterous  and  orotund  ass. 
Polonius's  doctrine  of  friendship — "The  friends  thou 
hast,  and  their  adoption  tried,  grapple  them  to  thy 
soul  with  hoops  of  steel" — was,  we  trow,  a  necessary 
one  in  his  case.  It  would  need  a  hoop  of  steel  to  keep 
them  near  such  a  dismal  old  sawmonger. 

Friendships,  we  think,  do  not  grow  up  in  any  such 
carefully  tended  and  contemplated  fashion  as 
Messrs.  Emerson  and  Polonius  suggest.  They  begin 
haphazard.  As  we  look  back  on  the  first  time  we 
saw  our  friends  we  find  that  generally  our  original 
impression  was  curiously  astray.  We  have  worked 
along  beside  them,  have  consorted  with  them  drunk 
or  sober,  have  grown  to  cherish  their  delicious 
absurdities,  have  outrageously  imposed  on  each 
other's  patience — and  suddenly  we  awoke  to  realize 
what  had  happened.  We  had,  without  knowing  it, 
gained  a  new  friend.  In  some  curious  way  the  un 
seen  border  line  had  been  passed.  We  had  reached 
the  final  culmination  of  Anglo-Saxon  regard  when 
two  men  rarely  look  each  other  straight  in  the  eyes 
because  they  are  ashamed  to  show  each  other  how 
fond  they  are.  We  had  reached  the  fine  flower  and 
the  ultimate  test  of  comradeship — that  is,  when  you 
get  a  letter  from  one  of  your  "best  friends,"  you 
know  you  don't  need  to  answer  it  until  you  get  ready 
to. 

[6] 


On  Making  Friends 

Emerson  is  right  in  saying  that  friendship  can't  be 
hurried.  It  takes  time  to  ripen.  It  needs  a  back 
ground  of  humorous,  wearisome,  or  even  tragic 
events  shared  together,  a  certain  tract  of  memories 
shared  in  common,  so  that  you  know  that  your  own 
life  and  your  companion's  have  really  moved  for 
some  time  in  the  same  channel.  It  needs  inter 
change  of  books,  meals  together,  discussion  of  one 


another's  whims  with  mutual  friends,  to  gain  a 
proper  perspective.  It  is  set  in  a  rich  haze  of  half- 
remembered  occasions,  sudden  glimpses,  ludicrous 
pranks,  unsuspected  observations,  midnight  confi 
dences  when  heart  spoke  to  candid  heart. 
The  soul  preaches  humility  to  itself  when  it 

[7] 


Pipefuls 

realizes,  startled,  that  it  has  won  a  new  friend. 
Knowing  what  a  posset  of  contradictions  we  all  are, 
it  feels  a  symptom  of  shame  at  the  thought  that  our 
friend  knows  all  our  frailties  and  yet  thinks  us  worth 
affection.  We  all  have  cause  to  be  shamefast  in 
deed;  for  whereas  we  love  ourselves  in  spite  of  our 
faults,  our  friends  often  love  us  even  on  account  of 
our  faults,  the  highest  level  to  which  attachment  can 
go.  And  what  an  infinite  appeal  there  is  in  their 
faces!  How  we  grow  to  cherish  those  curious  little 
fleshy  cages — so  oddly  sculptured — which  inclose  the 
spirit  within.  To  see  those  faces,  bent  uncon 
sciously  over  their  tasks — each  different,  each 
unique,  each  so  richly  and  queerly  expressive  of  the 
lively  and  perverse  enigma  of  man,  is  a  full  educa 
tion  in  human  tolerance.  Privately,  one  studies  his 
own  ill-modeled  visnomy  to  see  if  by  any  chance  it 
bespeaks  the  emotions  he  inwardly  feels.  We  know 
— as  Hamlet  did — the  vicious  mole  of  nature  in  us, 
the  o'ergrowth  of  some  complexion  that  mars  the 
purity  of  our  secret  resolutions.  Yet — our  friends 
have  passed  it  over,  have  shown  their  willingness  to 
take  us  as  we  are.  Can  we  do  less  than  hope  to  de 
serve  their  generous  tenderness,  granted  before  it 
was  earned? 

The  problem  of  education,  said  R.  L.  S.,  is  two 
fold — "first  to  know,  then  to  utter."  Every  man 
knows  what  friendship  means,  but  few  can  utter  that 
complete  frankness  of  communion,  based  upon  full 

[8] 


On  Making  Friends 

comprehension  of  mutual  weakness,  enlivened  by  a 
happy  understanding  of  honourable  intentions 
generously  shared.  When  we  first  met  our  friends 
we  met  with  bandaged  eyes.  We  did  not  know  what 
journeys  they  had  been  on,  what  winding  roads 
their  spirits  had  travelled,  what  ingenious  shifts  they 
had  devised  to  circumvent  the  walls  and  barriers  of 
the  world.  We  know  these  now,  for  some  of  them 
they  have  told  us;  others  we  have  guessed.  We 
have  watched  them  when  they  little  dreamed  it;  just 
as  they  (we  suppose)  have  done  with  us.  Every 
gesture  and  method  of  their  daily  movement  have 
become  part  of  our  enjoyment  of  life.  Not  until  a 
time  comes  for  saying  good-bye  will  we  ever  know 
how  much  we  wTould  like  to  have  said.  At  those 
times  one  has  to  fall  back  on  shrewder  tongues. 
You  remember  Hilaire  Belloc: 

From  quiet  homes  and  first  beginning 

Out  to  the  undiscovered  ends, 
There's  nothing  worth  the  wear  of  winning 

But  laughter,  and  the  love  of  friends. 


[9] 


THOUGHTS  ON  CIDER 


P 


friend  Dove  Dulcet,  the  poet,  came  into 
our  kennel  and  found  us  arm  in  arm  with  a 
deep  demijohn  of  Chester  County  cider.  We 
poured  him  out  a  beaker  of  the  cloudy  amber  juice. 
It  was  just  in  prime  condition,  sharpened  with  a 
blithe  tingle,  beaded  with  a  pleasing  bubble  of  froth. 
Dove  looked  upon  it  with  a  kindled  eye.  His 
arm  raised  the  tumbler  in  a  manner  that  showed 
this  gesture  to  be  one  that  he  had  compassed  be 
fore.  The  orchard  nectar  began  to  sluice  down  his 
throat. 
Dove  is  one  who  has  faced  many  and  grievous 

[10] 


Thoughts  on  Cider 

woes.  His  Celtic  soul  peers  from  behind  cloudy 
curtains  of  alarm.  Old  unhappy  far-off  things  and 
battles  long  ago  fume  in  the  smoke  of  his  pipe.  His 
girded  spirit  sees  agrarian  unrest  in  the  daffodil  and 
industrial  riot  in  a  tin  of  preserved  prunes.  He 
sees  the  world  moving  on  the  brink  of  horror  and 
despair.  Sweet  dalliance  with  a  baked  bloater  on  a 
restaurant  platter  moves  him  to  grief  over  the  hard 
lot  of  the  Newfoundland  fishing  fleet.  Six  cups  of 
tea  warm  him  to  anguish  over  the  peonage  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lipton's  coolies  in  Ceylon.  Souls  in 
perplexity  cluster  round  him  like  Canadian  dimes  in 
a  cash  register  in  Plattsburgh,  N.  Y.  He  is  a  human 
sympathy  trust.  When  we  are  on  our  deathbed  we 
shall  send  for  him.  The  perfection  of  his  gentle  sor 
row  will  send  us  roaring  out  into  the  dark,  and  will 
set  a  valuable  example  to  the  members  of  our  familyj 

But  it  is  the  rack  of  clouds  that  makes  the  sunset 
lovely.  The  bosomy  vapours  of  Dove's  soul  are  the 
palette  upon  which  the  decumbent  sun  of  his  spirit 
casts  its  vivid  orange  and  scarlet  colours.  His  joy 
is  the  more  perfect  to  behold  because  it  bursts 
goldenly  through  the  pangs  of  his  tender  heart. 
His  soul  is  like  the  infant  Moses,  cradled  among  dark 
and  prickly  bullrushes;  but  anon  it  floats  out  upon 
the  river  and  drifts  merrily  downward  on  a  sparkling 
spate. 

It  has  nothing  to  do  with  Dove,  but  we  will  here 
interject  the  remark  that  a  pessimist  overtaken  by 

[11] 


Pipefuls 

liquor  is  the  cheeriest  sight  in  the  world.     Who  is  so 
extravagantly,  gloriously,  and  irresponsibly  gay? 

Dove's  eyes  beaconed  as  the  cider  went  its  way. 
The  sweet  lingering  tang  filled  the  arch  of  his  palate 
with  a  soft  mellow,  cheer.  His  gaze  fell  upon  us  as 
his  head  tilted  gently  backward.  We  wish  there 
had  been  a  painter  there — someone  like  F.  Walter 
Taylor — to  rush  onto  canvas  the  gorgeous  benignity 
of  his  aspect.  It  would  have  been  a  portrait  of  the 
rich  Flemish  school.  Dove's  eyes  were  full  of  a 
tender  emotion,  mingled  with  a  charmed  and  wistful 
surprise.  It  was  as  though  the  poet  was  saying  he 
had  not  realized  there  was  anything  so  good  left  on 
earth.  His  bearing  was  devout,  religious,  mystical. 
In  one  moment  of  revelation  (so  it  appeared  to  us  as 
we  watched)  Dove  looked  upon  all  the  profiles  and 
aspects  of  life,  and  found  them  of  noble  outline. 
Not  since  the  grandest  of  Grand  Old  Parties  went  out 
of  power  has  Dove  looked  less  as  though  he  felt  the 
world  were  on  the  verge  of  an  abyss.  For  several 
moments  revolution  and  anarchy  receded,  profiteers 
were  tamed,  capital  and  labour  purred  together  on  a 
mattress  of  catnip,  and  the  cosmos  became  a  free 
verse  poem.  He  did  not  even  utter  the  customary 
and  ungracious  remark  of  those  to  whom  cider 
potations  are  given:  "That'll  be  at  its  best  in 
about  a  week."  We  apologized  for  the  cider  being  a 
little  warmish  from  standing  (discreetly  hidden) 
under  our  desk.  Douce  man,  he  said:  "I  think 
[12] 


Thoughts  on  Cider 

cider,  like  ale,  ought  not  to  be  drunk  too  cold.  I  like 
it  just  this  way."  He  stood  for  a  moment,  filled 
with  theology  and  metaphysics.  "By  gracious,"  he 
said,  "it  makes  all  the  other  stuff  taste  like  poison." 
Still  he  stood  for  a  brief  instant,  transfixed  with 
complete  bliss.  It  was  apparent  to  us  that  his  mind 
was  busy  with  apple  orchards  and  autumn  sunshine. 
Perhaps  he  was  wondering  whether  he  could  make 
a  poem  out  of  it.  Then  he  turned  softly  and  went 
back  to  his  job  in  a  life  insurance  office. 

As  for  ourself,  we  then  poured  out  another 
tumbler,  lit  a  corncob  pipe,  and  meditated.  Falstaff 
once  said  that  he  had  forgotten  what  the  inside  of  a 
church  looked  like.  There  will  come  a  time  when 
many  of  us  will  perhaps  have  forgotten  what  the  in 
side  of  a  saloon  looked  like,  but  there  will  still  be  the 
consolation  of  the  cider  jug.  Like  the  smell  of 
roasting  chestnuts  and  the  comfortable  equatorial 
warmth  of  an  oyster  stew,  it  is  a  consolation  hard  to 
put  into  words.  It  calls  irresistibly  for  tobacco;  in 
fact  the  true  cider  toper  always  pulls  a  long  puff  at 
his  pipe  before  each  drink,  and  blows  some  of  the 
smoke  into  the  glass  so  that  he  gulps  down  some  of 
the  blue  reek  with  his  draught.  Just  why  this 
should  be,  we  know  not.  Also  some  enthusiasts  in 
sist  on  having  small  sugared  cookies  with  their 
cider;  others  cry  loudly  for  Reading  pretzels.  Some 
have  ingenious  theories  about  letting  the  jug  stand, 
either  tightly  stoppered  or  else  unstoppered,  until 

[13] 


Pipefuls 

it  becomes  "hard."  In  our  experience  hard  cider  is 
distressingly  like  drinking  vinegar.  We  prefer  it 
soft,  with  all  its  sweetness  and  the  transfusing  savour 
of  the  fruit  animating  it.  At  the  peak  of  its  delicious- 
ness  it  has  a  small,  airy  sparkle  against  the  roof  of  the 
mouth,  a  delicate  tactile  sensation  like  the  feet  of 
dancing  flies.  This,  we  presume,  is  the  4j  to  7  per 
cent,  of  sin  with  which  fermented  cider  is  credited  by 
works  of  reference.  There  are  pedants  and  bigots 
who  insist  that  the  jug  must  be  stoppered  with  a 
corncob.  For  our  own  part,  the  stopper  does  not 
stay  in  the  neck  long  enough  after  the  demijohn 
reaches  us  to  make  it  worth  while  worrying  about 
this  matter.  Yet  a  nice  attention  to  detail  may 
prove  that  the  cob  has  some  secret  affinity  with 
cider,  for  a  Missouri  meerschaum  never  tastes  so 
well  as  after  three  glasses  of  this  rustic  elixir. 

That  ingenious  student  of  social  niceties,  John 
Mistletoe,  in  his  famous  Dictionary  of  Deplorable 
Facts — a  book  which  we  heartily  commend  to  the 
curious,  for  he  includes  a  long  and  most  informing 
article  on  cider,  tracing  its  etymology  from  the  old 
Hebrew  word  shaker  meaning  "to  quaff  deeply" — 
maintains  that  cider  should  only  be  drunk  beside  an 
open  fire  of  applewood  logs: 

And  preferably  on  an  evening  of  storm  and  wet 
ness,  when  the  swish  and  sudden  pattering  of  rain 
against  the  panes  lend  an  added  agreeable  snugness 
to  the  cheerful  scene  within,  where  master  and 

[14] 


Thoughts  on  Cider 

dame  sit  by  the  rosy  hearth  frying  sausages  in  a 
pan  laid  on  the  embers. 

This  reminds  one  of  the  anecdote  related  by  ex- 
Senator  Beveridge  in  his  Life  of  John  Marshall. 
Justice  Story  told  his  wife  that  the  justices  of  the 
Supreme  Court  were  of  a  self-denying  habit,  never 
taking  wine  except  in  wet  weather.  "But  it  does 
sometimes  happen  that  the  Chief  Justice  will  say 
to  me,  when  the  cloth  is  removed,  'Brother  Story, 
step  to  the  window  and  see  if  it  does  not  look  like 
rain.'  And  if  I  tell  him  that  the  sun  is  shining 
brightly,  Judge  Marshall  will  sometimes  reply,  'All 
the  better,  for  our  jurisdiction  extends  over  so  large  a 
territory  that  the  doctrine  of  chances  makes  it  cer 
tain  that  it  must  be  raining  somewhere.'" 

Our  own  theory  about  cider  is  that  the  time  to 
drink  it  is  when  it  reaches  you;  and  if  it  hails  from 
Chester  County,  so  much  the  better. 

We  remember  with  gusto  a  little  soliloquy  on  cider 
delivered  by  another  friend  of  ours,  as  we  both  stood 
in  a  decent  ordinary  on  Fulton  Street,  going  through 
all  the  motions  of  jocularity  and  cheer.  Cider  (he 
said)  is  our  refuge  and  strength.  Cider,  he  in 
sisted,  drawing  from  his  pocket  a  clipping  much 
tarnished  with  age,  is  a  drink  for  men  of  reason  and 
genteel  nurture;  a  drink  for  such  as  desire  to  drink 
pleasantly,  amiably,  healthily,  and  with  perseverance 
and  ye V  retain  the  command  and  superintendence  of 

[15] 


Pipefuls 

their  faculties.  I  have  here  (he  continued)  a  clip 
ping  sent  me  by  an  eminent  architect  in  the  great 
city  of  Philadelphia  (a  city  which  it  is  a  pleasure  for 
me  to  contemplate  by  reason  of  the  beauty  and 
virtue  of  its  women,  the  infinite  vivacity  and  good 
temper  of  its  men,  the  rectitudinal  disposition  of  its 
highways) — I  have  here  (he  exclaimed)  a  clipping 
sent  me  by  an  architect  of  fame,  charming  parts,  and 
infinite  cellarage,  explaining  the  virtues  of  cider. 
Cider,  this  clipping  asserts,  produces  a  clearness  of 
the  complexion.  It  brightens  the  eye,  particularly 
in  women,  conducing  to  the  composition  of  generous 
compliment  and  all  the  social  suavity  that  endears 
the  intercourse  of  the  sexes.  Longevity,  this 
extract  maintains,  is  the  result  of  application  to 
good  cider.  The  Rev.  Martin  Johnson,  vicar  of 
Dilwyn,  in  Herefordshire,  from  1651  to  1698  (he 
read  from  his  clipping),  wrote: 

This  parish,  wherein  sider  is  plentifull,  hath  many 
people  that  do  enjoy  this  blessing  of  long  life;  neither 
are  the  aged  bedridden  or  decrepit  as  elsewhere;  next  to 
God,  wee  ascribe  it  to  our  flourishing  orchards,  first  that 
the  bloomed  trees  in  spring  do  not  only  sweeten  but 
purify  the  ambient  air;  next,  that  they  yield  us  plenty 
of  rich  and  winy  liquors,  which  do  conduce  very  much 
to  the  constant  health  of  our  inhabitants.  Their 
ordinary  course  is  to  breakfast  and  sup  with  toast  and 
sider  through  the  whole  Lent;  which  heightens  their 
appetites  and  creates  in  them  durable  strength  to 
labour. 


Thoughts  on  Cider 

There  was  a  pause,  and  our  friend  (he  is  a  man  of 
girth  and  with  a  brow  bearing  all  the  candor  of  a 
life  of  intense  thought)  leaned  against  the  mahogany 
counter. 

That  is  very  fine,  we  said,  draining  our  chalice,  and 
feeling  brightness  of  eye,  length  of  years,  and  durable 
strength  to  labour  added  to  our  person.  In  the 
meantime  (we  said)  why  do  you  not  drink  the  rich 
and  winy  liquor  which  your  vessel  contains? 

He  folded  up  his  clipping  and  put  it  away  with  a 
sigh. 

I  always  have  to  read  that  first,  he  said,  to  make 
the  damned  stuff  palatable.  It  will  be  ten  years,  he 
said,  before  the  friend  who  sent  me  that  clipping  will 
have  to  drink  any  cider. 


[17] 


ONE-NIGHT  STANDS 


THOSE  looking  for  an  exhilarating  vacation 
A  let  us  commend  a  week  of  "trouping"  on  one- 
night  stands  with  a  theatrical  company,  which 
mirthful  experience  has  just  been  ours.  We  went 
along  in  the  very  lowly  capacity  of  co-author,  which 
placed  us  somewhat  beneath  the  stage  hands  as  far 
as  dignity  was  concerned;  and  we  flatter  ourself  that 
we  have  learned  our  station  and  observe  it  with  due 
humility.  The  first  task  of  the  director  who  stages 
a  play  is  to  let  the  author  know  where  he  gets  off. 
This  was  accomplished  in  our  case  by  an  argument 
concerning  a  speech  in  the  play  where  one  of  the 

[18] 


One-Night  Stands 

characters  remarks,  "I  propose  to  send  a  mental 
message  to  Eliza."  This  sounds  (we  contend)  quite 
a  harmless  sentiment,  but  the  director  insisted  that 
the  person  speaking,  being  an  Englishman  of 
studious  disposition,  would  not  say  anything  so  in 
accurate.  "He  would  use  much  more  correct 
language,"  said  the  director.  "He  ought  to  say  'I 
purpose  to  send.' "  We  balked  mildly  at  this.  "All 
right,"  said  our  mentor.  "The  trouble  with  you  is 
you  don't  know  any  English.  I'll  send  you  a  copy  of 
the  Century  dictionary." 

This  gentleman  carried  purism  to  almost  extrava 
gant  lengths.  He  objected  to  the  customary 
pronunciation  of  "jew's-harp,"  insisting  that  the 
word  should  be  "juice-harp,"  and  instructing  the 
actor  who  mentioned  this  innocent  instrument  of 
melody  to  write  it  down  so  in  his  script.  When  the 
dress  rehearsal  came  round,  he  was  surveying  the 
"  set "  for  the  first  act  with  considerable  complacence. 
This  scenery  was  intended  to  represent  a  very 
ancient  English  inn  at  Stratford-on-Avon,  and  one 
of  the  authors  was  heard  to  remark  softly  that  it 
looked  more  like  a  broker's  office  on  Wall  Street. 
But  the  director  was  unshaken.  "There's  an  old 
English  inn  up  at  Larchmont,"  said  he,  "and  this 
looks  a  good  deal  like  it,  so  I  guess  we're  all  right." 

Let  any  one  who  imagines  the  actor's  life  is  one  of 
bevo  and  skittles  sally  along  with  a  new  play  on  its 
try-out  in  the  one-night  circuit.  When  one  sees  the 

[19] 


Pipefuls 

delightful  humour,  fortitude,  and  high  spirits  with 
which  the  players  face  their  task  he  gains  a  new 
respect  for  the  profession.  It  is  with  a  sense  of 
shame  that  the  wincing  author  hears  his  lines  re 
peated  night  after  night — lines  that  seem  to  him  to 
have  grown  so  stale  and  disreputably  stupid,  and 
which  the  ingenuity  of  the  players  contrives  to  instill 
with  life.  With  a  sense  of  shame  indeed  does  he 
reflect  that  because  one  day  long  ago  he  was  struck 
with  a  preposterous  idea,  here  are  honest  folk  de 
pending  on  it  to  earn  daily  bread  and  travelling  on  a 
rainy  day  on  a  local  train  on  the  Central  New 
England  Railway;  here  are  800  people  in  Saratoga 
Springs  filing  into  a  theatre  with  naive  expectation 
on  their  faces.  Amusing  things  happen  faster  than 
he  can  stay  to  count  them.  A  fire  breaks  out  in  a 
cigar  store  a  few  minutes  before  theatre  time.  It  is 
extinguished  immediately,  but  half  the  town  has 
rushed  down  to  see  the  excitement.  The  cigar  store 
is  almost  next  door  to  the  theatre,  and  the  crowd 
sees  the  lighted  sign  and  drops  in  to  give  the  show 
the  once-over,  thus  giving  one  a  capacity  house. 
Then  there  are  the  amusing  accidents  that  happen  on 
the  stage,  due  to  the  inevitable  confusion  of  one- 
night  stands  with  long  jumps  each  day,  when 
scenery  and  props  arrive  at  the  theatre  barely  in 
time  to  be  set  up.  In  the  third  act  one  of  the 
characters  has  to  take  his  trousers  out  of  a  handbag. 
He  opens  the  bag,  but  by  some  error  no  garments  are 
[20] 


One-Night  Stands 


within.  Heavens!  has  the  stage  manager  mixed  up 
the  bags?  He  has  only  one  hope.  The  girlish 
heroine's  luggage  is  also  on  the  stage,  and  our  com 
edian  dashes  over  and  finds  his  trousers  in  her  bag. 
This  casts  a  most  sinister  imputation  on  the  adorable 
heroine,  but  our  friend  (blessings  on  him)  contrives 
it  so  delicately  that  the  audience  doesn't  get  wise. 
Then  doors  that  are  supposed  to  be  locked  have  a 
habit  of  swinging  open,  and  the  luckless  heroine, 
ready  to  say  furiously  to  the  hero,  **  Will  you  unlock 
the  door?"  finds  herself  facing  an  open  doorway  and 
has  to  invent  a  line  to  get  herself  off  the  stage. 

Going  on  the  road  is  a  very  humanizing  experience 
and  one  gathers  a  considerable  respect  for  the  small 
towns  one  visits.  They  are  so  brisk,  so  proud  in 
their  local  achievements,  so  prosperous  and  so  full  of 
attractive  shop- windows.  When  one  finds  in  Johns 
town,  N.  Y.,  for  instance,  a  bookshop  with  almost  as 
well-assorted  a  stock  as  one  would  see  here  in 
Philadelphia;  or  in  Gloversville  and  Newburgh 
public  libraries  that  would  be  a  credit  to  any  large 
city,  one  realizes  the  great  tide  of  public  intelligence 
that  has  risen  perceptibly  in  recent  years.  At  the 
hotel  in  Gloversville  the  proprietress  assured  us  that 
"an  English  duke"  had  just  left  who  told  her  that  he 
preferred  her  hotel  to  the  Biltmore  in  New  York. 
We  rather  wondered  about  this  English  duke,  but  we 
looked  him  up  on  the  register  and  found  that  he  was 
Sir  H.  Urnick  of  Fownes  Brothers,  the  glove  manu- 

[21] 


Pipefuls 

facturers,  who  have  a  factory  in  Gloversville.  But 
then,  being  a  glove  manufacturer,  he  may  have  been 
kidding  her,  as  the  low  comedian  of  our  troupe 
observed.  But  the  local  pride  of  the  small  town  is  a 
genial  thing.  It  may  always  be  noted  in  the  barber 
shops.  The  small-town  barber  knows  his  customers 
and  when  a  strange  face  appears  to  be  shaved  on  the 
afternoon  when  the  bills  are  announcing  a  play,  he 
puts  two  and  two  together.  "Are  you  with  that 
show?"  he  asks;  and  being  answered  in  the  affirma 
tive  (one  naturally  would  not  admit  that  one  is 
merely  there  in  the  frugal  capacity  of  co-author,  and 
hopes  that  he  will  imagine  that  such  a  face  might 
conceivably  belong  to  the  low  comedian)  he  proceeds 
to  expound  the  favourite  doctrine  that  this  is  a  wise 
burg.  "Yes,"  he  says,  "folks  here  are  pretty  cagy. 
If  your  show  can  get  by  here  you  needn't  worry 
about  New  York.  Believe  me,  if  you  get  a  hand  here 
you  can  go  right  down  to  Broadway.  I  always  take 
in  the  shows,  and  I've  heard  lots  of  actors  say  this 
town  is  harder  to  please  than  any  place  they  ever 
played." 

One  gets  a  new  viewpoint  on  many  matters  by  a 
week  of  one-night  stands.  Theatrical  billboards,  for 
instance.  We  had  always  thought,  in  a  vague  kind 
of  way,  that  they  were  a  defacement  to  a  town  and 
cluttered  up  blank  spaces  in  an  unseemly  way. 
But  when  you  are  trouping,  the  first  thing  you  do, 
after  registering  at  the  hotel,  is  to  go  out  and  scout 
[22] 


One-Night  Stands 

round  the  town  yearning  for  billboards  and  com 
plaining  because  there  aren't  enough  of  them.  You 
meet  another  member  of  the  company  on  the  same 
errand  and  say,  "I  don't  see  much  paper  out,"  this 
being  the  technical  phrase.  You  both  agree  that  the 
advance  agent  must  be  loafing.  Then  you  set  out 
to  see  what  opposition  you  are  playing  against,  and 
emit  groans  on  learning  that  "The  Million  Dollar 
Doll  in  Paris"  is  also  in  town,  or  "Harry  Bulger's 
Girly  Show"  will  be  there  the  following  evening,  or 
Mack  Sennett's  Bathing  Beauties  in  Person. 
"That's  the  kind  of  stuff  they  fall  for,"  said  the 
other  author  mournfully,  and  you  hustle  around  to 
the  box  office  to  see  whether  the  ticket  rack  is  still 
full  of  unsold  pasteboard. 

At  this  time  of  year,  when  all  the  metropolitan 
theatres  are  crowded  and  there  are  some  thirty 
plays  cruising  round  in  the  offing  waiting  for  a 
chance  to  get  into  New  York  and  praying  that  some 
show  now  there  will  "flop,"  one  crosses  the  trail  of 
many  other  wandering  troupes  that  are  battering 
about  from  town  to  town.  In  remote  Johnstown, 
N.  Y.,  which  can  only  be  reached  by  trolley  and 
where  there  is  no  hotel  (but  a  very  fine  large  theatre) 
one  finds  that  Miss  Grace  George  is  to  be  the  next 
attraction.  On  the  train  to  Saratoga  one  rides  on 
the  same  train  with  the  Million  Dollar  Doll,  and 
those  who  have  seen  her  "paper"  on  the  billboards 
in  Newburgh  or  Poughkeepsie  keep  an  attentive 

[23] 


Pipefuls 

optic  open  for  the  lady  herself  to  see  how  nearly  she 
lives  up  to  her  lithographs.  And  if  the  passerby 
should  see  a  lighted  window  in  the  hotel  glimmering 
at  two  in  the  morning,  he  will  probably  aver  that 
there  are  some  of  those  light-hearted  "show  people" 
carousing  over  a  flagon  of  Virginia  Dare.  Little 
does  he  suspect  that  long  after  the  tranquil  thespians 
have  gone  to  their  well-earned  hay,  the  miserable 
authors  of  the  trying-out  piece  may  be  vigiling  to 
gether,  trying  to  dope  out  a  new  scene  for  the  third 
act.  The  saying  is  not  new,  but  it  comes  frequently 
to  the  lips  of  the  one-night  stander — It's  a  great  life 
if  you  don't  weaken. 


[24] 


THE  OWL  TRAIN 


ACROSS    the    cold    moonlit    landscapes,    while 
good  folk  are  at  home  curling  their  toes  in 
the  warm  bottom  of  the  bed,  the  Owl  trains  rumble 
with  a  gentle  drone,  neither  fast  nor  slow. 

There  are  several  Owl  trains  with  which  we  have 
been  familiar.  One,  rather  aristocratic  of  its  kind, 
is  the  caravan  of  sleeping  cars  that  leaves  New  York 
at  midnight  and  deposits  hustling  business  men  of 
the  most  aggressive  type  at  the  South  Station,  Bos 
ton.  After  a  desolate  progress  full  of  incredible 
jerks  and  jolts  these  pilgrims  reach  this  dampest, 
darkest,  and  most  Arctic  of  all  terminals  about  the 
time  the  morning  codfish  begins  to  warm  his  bosom 
on  the  gridirons  of  the  sacred  city.  Another,  a 
terrible  nocturnal  prowler,  slips  darkly  away  from 
Albany  about  1  A.  M.,  and  rambles  disconsolately 
and  with  shrill  waitings  along  the  West  Shore  line. 
Below  the  grim  Palisades  of  the  Hudson  it  wakes 

[25] 


Pipefuls 

painful  echoes.  Its  first  six  units,  as  far  as  one  can 
see  in  the  dark,  are  blind  express  cars,  containing 
milk  cans  and  coffins.  We  once  boarded  it  at  Kings 
ton,  and  after  uneasy  slumber  across  two  facing 
seats  found  ourself  impaled  upon  Weehawken  three 
hours  later.  There  one  treads  dubiously  upon  a  ferry 
boat  hi  the  fog  and  brume  of  dawn,  ungluing  eyelids 
in  the  bleak  dividing  pressure  of  the  river  breeze. 

But  the  Owl  train  we  propose  to  celebrate  is  the 
vehicle  that  departs  modestly  from  the  crypt  of  the 
Pennsylvania  Station  in  New  York  at  half-past 
midnight  and  emits  blood-shot  wanderers  at  West 
Philadelphia  at  3:16  in  the  morning.  The  railroad 
company,  which  thinks  these  problems  out  with 
nice  care,  lulls  the  passengers  into  unconsciousness 
of  their  woes  not  only  by  a  gentle  and  even  gait,  a 
progress  almost  tender  in  its  carefully  modulated 
repression  of  speed,  but  also  by  keeping  the  cars  at 
such  an  amazing  heat  that  the  victims  promptly 
fade  into  a  swoon.  Nowhere  will  you  see  a  more 
complete  abandonment  to  the  wild  postures  of 
fatigue  and  despair  than  in  the  pathetic  sprawl  of 
these  human  forms  upon  the  simmering  plush  set 
tees.  A  hot  eddy  of  some  varnish-tinctured 
vapour — certainly  not  air — rises  from  under  the 
seats  and  wraps  the  traveller  in  a  nightmarish  trance. 
Occasionally  he  starts  wildly  from  his  dream  and 
glares  frightfully  through  the  misted  pane.  It  is 
the  custom  of  the  trainmen,  who  tiptoe  softly 
[20] 


The  Owl  Train 

through  the  cars,  never  to  disturb  their  clients  by 
calling  out  the  names  of  stations.  When  New 
Brunswick  is  reached  many  think  that  they  have 
arrived  at  West  Philadelphia,  or  (worse  still)  have 
been  carried  on  to  Wilmington.  They  rush  des 
perately  to  the  bracing  chill  of  the  platform  to  learn 
where  they  are.  There  is  a  mood  of  mystery  about 
this  Owl  of  ours.  The  trainmen  take  a  quaint 
delight  in  keeping  the  actual  whereabouts  of  the 
caravan  a  merciful  secret. 

Oddly  assorted  people  appear  on  this  train. 
Occasional  haughty  revellers,  in  evening  dress  and 
opera  capes,  appear  among  the  humbler  voyagers. 
For  a  time  they  stay  on  their  dignity:  sit  bravely 
upright  and  talk  with  apparent  intelligence.  Then 
the  drowsy  poison  of  that  stifled  atmosphere  over 
comes  them,  too,  and  they  fall  into  the  weakness 
of  their  brethren.  They  turn  over  the  opposing 
seat,  elevate  their  nobler  shins,  and  droop  languid 
heads  over  the  ticklish  plush  chair-back.  Strange 
aliens  lie  spread  over  the  seats.  Nowhere  will  you 
see  so  many  faces  of  curious  foreign  carving.  It 
seems  as  though  many  desperate  exiles,  who  never 
travel  by  day,  use  the  Owl  for  moving  obscurely 
from  city  to  city.  This  particular  tram  is  bound 
south  to  Washington,  and  at  least  hah6  its  tenants  are 
citizens  of  colour.  Even  the  endless  gayety  of  our 
dusky  brother  is  not  proof  against  the  venomous 
exhaustion  of  that  boxed-in  suffocation.  The 

[27] 


Pipefuls 

ladies  of  his  race  are  comfortably  prepared  for  the 
hardships  of  the  route.  They  wrap  themselves  in 
huge  fur  coats  and  all  have  sofa  cushions  to  recline 
on.  Even  in  an  all-night  session  of  Congress  you 
will  hardly  note  so  complete  an  abandonment  of 
disillusion,  weariness,  and  cynical  despair  as  is 
written  upon  the  blank  faces  all  down  the  aisle. 
Even  the  will-power  of  a  George  Creel  or  a  Will  H. 
Hays  would  droop  before  this  three-hour  ordeal. 
Professor  Einstein,  who  talks  so  delightfully  of  dis 
carding  Time  and  Space,  might  here  reconsider  his 
theories  if  he  brooded,  baking  gradually  upward,  on 
the  hot  green  plush. 

This  genial  Owl  is  not  supposed  to  stop  at  North 
Philadelphia,  but  it  always  does.  By  this  time 
Philadelphia  passengers  are  awake  and  gathered  in 
the  cold  vestibules,  panting  for  escape.  Some  of 
them,  against  the  rules  of  the  train,  manage  to 
escape  on  the  North  Philadelphia  platform.  The 
rest,  standing  huddled  over  the  swaying  couplings, 
find  the  leisurely  transit  to  West  Philadelphia  as 
long  as  the  other  segments  of  the  ride  put  together. 
Stoically,  and  beyond  the  power  of  words,  they  lean 
on  one  another.  At  last  the  train  slides  down  a  grade. 
In  the  dark  and  picturesque  tunnel  of  the  West 
Philadelphia  station,  through  thick  mists  of  steam 
where  the  glow  of  the  fire  box  paints  the  fog  a  golden 
rose,  they  grope  and  find  the  ancient  stairs.  Then  they 
stagger  off  to  seek  a  lonely  car  or  a  night-hawk  taxi. 
[28] 


SAFETY  PINS 


EjATURE  of  infancy,  healing  engine  of  emer 
gency,  base  and  mainstay  of  our  civilization 
— we  celebrate  the  safety  pin. 

What  would  we  do  without  safety  pins?  Is  it 
not  odd  to  think,  looking  about  us  on  our  fel- 
lowmen  (bearded  realtors,  ejaculating  poets,  plump 
and  ruddy  policemen,  even  the  cheerful  dusky 
creature  who  runs  the  elevator  and  whistles  "Oh, 
What  a  Pal  Was  Mary"  as  the  clock  draws  near 
6  P.  M.) — all  these  were  first  housed  and  swad 
dled  and  made  seemly  with  a  paper  of  safety  pins. 
How  is  it  that  the  inventor  who  first  conferred 
this  great  gift  on  the  world  is  not  known  by  name 
for  the  admiration  and  applause  of  posterity?  Was 

[29] 


Pipefuls 

it  not  the  safety  pin  that  made  the  world  safe  for 
infancy? 

There  will  be  some,  mayhap,  to  set  up  the  button 
as  rival  to  the  safety  pin  in  service  to  humanity. 
But  our  homage  bends  toward  the  former.  Not 
only  was  it  our  shield  and  buckler  when  we  were  too 
puny  and  impish  to  help  ourselves,  but  it  is  also  (now 
we  are  parent)  symbol  of  many  a  hard-fought  field, 
where  we  have  campaigned  all  over  the  white  count 
erpane  of  a  large  bed  to  establish  an  urchin  in  his 
proper  gear,  while  he  kicked  and  scrambled,  witless 
of  our  dismay.  It  is  fortunate,  pardee,  that  human 
memory  does  not  extend  backward  to  the  safety 
pin  era — happily  the  recording  carbon  sheet  of  the 
mind  is  not  inserted  on  the  roller  of  experience  until 
after  the  singular  humiliations  of  earliest  childhood 
have  passed.  Otherwise  our  first  recollection  would 
doubtless  be  of  the  grimly  flushed  large  face  of  a 
resolute  parent,  bending  hotly  downward  in  effort 
to  make  both  ends  meet  while  we  wambled  and 
waggled  in  innocent,  maddening  sport.  In  those 
days  when  life  was  (as  George  Herbert  puts  it) 
"assorted  sorrows,  anguish  of  all  sizes,"  the  safety 
pin  was  the  only  thing  that  raised  us  above  the 
bandar-log.  No  wonder  the  antique  schoolmen 
used  to  enjoy  computing  the  number  of  angels  that 
might  dance  on  the  point  of  a  pin.  But  only  arch 
angels  would  be  worthy  to  pirouette  on  a  safety  pin, 
which  is  indeed  mightier  than  the  sword.  When 
[30] 


Safety  Pins 

Adam  delved  and  Eve  did  spin,  what  did  they  do  for 
a  safety  pin? 

Great  is  the  stride  when  an  infant  passes  from 
the  safety  pin  period  to  the  age  of  buttons.  There 
are  three  ages  of  human  beings  in  this  matter:  (1) 
Safety  pins,  (2)  Buttons,  (3)  Studs,  or  (for  females) 
Hooks  and  Eyes.  Now  there  is  an  interim  in  the  life 
of  man  when  he  passes  away  from  safety  pins,  and, 
for  a  season,  knows  them  not — save  as  mere  con 
venience  in  case  of  breakdown.  He  thinks  of  them, 
in  his  antic  bachelor  years,  as  merely  the  wrecking 
train  of  the  sartorial  system,  a  casual  conjunction 
for  pyjamas,  or  an  impromptu  hoist  for  small 
clothes.  Ah!  with  humility  and  gratitude  he  greets 
them  again  later,  seeing  them  at  their  true  worth, 
the  symbol  of  integration  for  the  whole  social  fabric. 
Women,  with  their  intuitive  wisdom,  are  more 
subtle  in  this  subject.  They  never  wholly  out 
grow  safety  pins,  and  though  they  love  to  ornament 
them  with  jewellery,  precious  metal,  and  enamels, 
they  are  naught  but  safety  pins  after  all.  Some 
ingenious  philosopher  could  write  a  full  tractate  on 
woman  in  her  relation  to  pins — hairpins,  clothes 
pins,  rolling  pins,  hatpins. 

Only  a  bachelor,  as  we  have  implied,  scoffs  at  pins. 
Hamlet  remarked,  after  seeing  the  ghost,  and  not 
having  any  Sir  Oliver  Lodge  handy  to  reassure  him, 
that  he  did  not  value  his  life  at  a  pin's  fee.  Pope,  we 
believe,  coined  the  contemptuous  phrase,  "I  care  not 

[31] 


Pipefuls 

a  pin."  The  pin  has  never  been  done  justice  in  the 
world  of  poetry.  As  one  might  say,  the  pin  has  had 
no  Pindar.  Of  course  there  is  the  old  saw  about  see 
a  pin  and  pick  it  up,  all  the  day  you'll  have  good  luck. 
This  couplet,  barbarous  as  it  is  in  its  false  rhyme, 
points  (as  Mother  Goose  generally  does)  to  a  pro 
found  truth.  When  you  see  a  pin,  you  must  pick 
it  up.  In  other  words,  it  is  on  the  floor,  where  pins 
generally  are.  Their  instinctive  affinity  for  terra 
firma  makes  one  wonder  why  they,  rather  than  the 
apple,  did  not  suggest  the  law  of  gravitation  to  some 
one  long  before  Newton. 

Incidentally,  of  course,  the  reason  why  Adam  and 
Eve  were  forbidden  to  pick  the  apple  was  that  it  was 
supposed  to  stay  on  the  tree  until  it  fell,  and  Adam 
would  then  have  had  the  credit  of  spotting  the 
principle  of  gravitation. 

Much  more  might  be  said  about  pins,  touching 
upon  their  curious  capacity  for  disappearing,  super 
stitions  concerning  them,  usefulness  of  hatpins  or 
hairpins  as  pipe-cleaners,  usefulness  of  pins  to  school 
boys,  both  when  bent  for  fishing  and  when  filed  to  an 
extra  point  for  use  on  the  boy  in  the  seat  in  front 
(honouring  him  in  the  breech,  as  Hamlet  would  have 
said)  and  their  curious  habits  of  turning  up  in  un 
expected  places,  undoubtedly  caught  by  pins  in  their 
long  association  with  the  lovelier  sex.  But  of  these 
useful  hyphens  of  raiment  we  will  merely  conclude 
by  saying  that  those  interested  in  the  pin  industry 
[32] 


Safety  Pins 

will  probably  emigrate  to  England,  for  we  learn  from 
the  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  that  in  that  happy 
island  pins  are  cleaned  by  being  boiled  in  weak  beer. 
Let  it  not  be  forgotten,  however,  that  of  all  kinds, 
the  safety  is  the  King  Pin. 


[33] 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  "COLYUMIST" 


I    CAN  not  imagine  any  pleasant  job  so  full  of 
pangs,  or  any  painful  job  so  full  of  pleasures, 
as  the  task  of  conducting  a  newspaper  column. 

The  colyumist,  when  he  begins  his  job,  is  dis 
heartened  because  nobody  notices  it.  He  soon  out 
grows  this,  and  is  disheartened  because  too  many 
people  notice  it,  and  he  imagines  that  all  see  the 
paltriness  of  it  as  plainly  as  he  does.  There  is 
[34] 


Confessions  of  a  "Colyumist" 

nothing  so  amazing  to  him  as  to  find  that  any  one 
really  enjoys  his  "stuff."  Poor  soul,  he  remembers 
how  he  groaned  over  it  at  his  desk.  He  remembers 
the  hours  he  sat  with  lack-lustre  eye  and  addled 
brain,  brooding  at  the  sluttish  typewriter.  He  re 
members  the  flush  of  shame  that  tingled  him  as  he 
walked  sadly  homeward,  thinking  of  some  atro 
cious  inanity  he  had  sent  upstairs  to  the  composing- 
room.  It  is  a  job  that  engenders  a  healthy  humility. 
I  had  always  wanted  to  have  a  try  at  writing  a 
column.  Heaven  help  me,  I  think  I  had  an  idea  that 
I  was  born  for  the  job.  I  may  as  well  be  candid. 
There  was  a  time  when  I  seriously  thought  of  insert 
ing  the  following  ad  in  a  Philadelphia  newspaper. 
I  find  a  memorandum  of  it  in  my  scrap-book: 

HUMORIST  :  Young  and  untamed,  lineal  descendent 
of  Eugene  Field,  Frank  Stockton,  and  Francois 
Rabelais,  desires  to  run  a  column  in  a  Philadelphia 
newspaper.  A  guaranteed  circulation-getter. 

Said  Humorist  can  also  supply  excellent  veins  of 
philosophy,  poetry,  satire,  uplift,  glad  material 
and  indiscriminate  musings.  Remarkable  oppor 
tunity  for  any  newspaper  desiring  a  really  unusual 
editorial  feature.  Address  HUMORIST,  etc. 

So  besotted  was  I,  I  would  have  paid  to  have  this 
printed  if  I  had  not  been  counselled  by  an  older  and 
wiser  head. 

I  instance  this  to  show  that  the  colyumist  is  likely 
to  begin  his  job  with  the  conception  that  it  is  to  be  a 

[35] 


Plpefuls 

perpetual  uproar  of  mirth  and  high  spirits.  This 
lasts  about  a  week.  He  then  learns,  in  secret,  to  take 
it  rather  seriously.  He  has  to  deal  with  the  most 
elusive  and  grotesque  material  he  knows — his  own 
mind;  and  the  unhappy  creature,  everlastingly  prob 
ing  himself  in  the  hope  of  discovering  what  is  so 
rare  in  minds  (a  thought),  is  likely  to  end  in  a  fer 
ment  of  bitterness.  The  happiest  times  in  life  are 
when  one  can  just  live  along  and  enjoy  things  as  they 
happen.  If  you  have  to  be  endlessly  speculating, 
watching,  and  making  mental  notes,  your  brain- 
gears  soon  get  a  hot  box.  The  original  of  all  para- 
graphers — Ecclesiastes — came  very  near  ending  as  a 
complete  cynic;  though  in  what  F.  P.  A.  would  call 
his  "lastline,"  he  managed  to  wriggle  into  a  more 
hopeful  mood. 

The  first  valuable  discovery  that  the  colyumist  is 
likely  to  make  is  that  all  minds  are  very  much  the 
same.  The  doctors  tell  us  that  all  patent  medicines 
are  built  on  a  stock  formula — a  sedative,  a  purge,  and 
a  bitter.  If  you  are  to  make  steady  column-topers 
out  of  your  readers,  your  daily  dose  must,  as  far  as 
possible,  average  up  to  that  same  prescription.  If  you 
employ  the  purge  all  the  time,  or  the  sedative,  or  the 
acid,  your  clients  will  soon  ask  for  something  with 
another  label. 

Don  Marquis  once  wrote  an  admirable  little  poem 
called  "A  Colyumist's  Prayer."    Mr.  Marquis,  who 
is  the  king  of  all  colyumists,  realizes  that  there  is 
[36] 


Confessions  of  a  "Colyumist" 

what  one  may  call  a  religious  side  in  colyumizing. 
It  is  hard  to  get  the  colyumist  to  admit  this,  for  he 
fears  spoofing  worse  than  the  devil;  but  it  is  emi 
nently  true.  If  I  were  the  owner  of  a  newspaper,  I 
think  I  would  have  painted  up  on  the  wall  of  the  local 
room  the  following  words  from  Isaiah,  the  best  of  all 
watchwords  for  all  who  write : 

Woe  unto  them  that  call  evil  good,  and  good  evil; 
that  put  darkness  for  light,  and  light  for  darkness; 
that  put  bitter  for  sweet,  and  sweet  for  bitter! 

The  most  painful  privilege  of  the  colyumist's  job 
is  the  number  of  people  who  drop  in  to  see  him, 
usually  when  he  is  imprecating  his  way  toward  the 
hour  of  going  to  press.  This  is  all  a  part  of  the  great 
and  salutary  human  instinct  against  work.  When 
people  see  a  man  toiling,  they  have  an  irresistible  im 
pulse  to  crowd  round  and  stop  him.  They  seem  to 
imagine  that  he  has  been  put  there  on  purpose  to  help 
them  solve  their  problems,  to  find  a  job  for  their 
friend  from  Harrisburg,  or  to  tell  them  how  to  find  a 
publisher  for  their  poems.  Unhappily,  their  victim 
being  merely  human,  is  likely  to  grow  a  bit  snappish 
under  infliction.  Yet  now  and  then  he  gets  a 
glimpse  into  a  human  vexation  so  sincere,  so  honest, 
and  so  moving  that  he  turns  away  from  the  type 
writer  with  a  sigh.  He  wonders  how  one  dare  ap 
proach  the  chronicling  of  this  muddled  panorama 
with  anything  but  humility  and  despair.  Frank 

[37] 


Pipefuls 

Harris  once  said  of  Oscar  Wilde:  "If  England  in 
sists  on  treating  her  criminals  like  this,  she  doesn't 
deserve  to  have  any."  Similarly,  if  the  public  in 
sists  on  bringing  its  woes  to  its  colyumists,  it  doesn't 
deserve  to  have  any  colyumists.  Then  the  battered 
jester  turns  again  to  his  machine  and  ticks  off  some 
thing  like  this: 

We  have  heard  of  ladies  who  have  been  tempted  be 
yond  their  strength.  We  have  also  seen  some  who 
have  been  strengthened  beyond  their  temptation. 

Of  course  there  are  good  days,  too.  (This  is  not 
one  of  them.)  Days  when  the  whole  course  of  the 
news  seems  planned  for  the  benefit  of  the  chaffish  and 
irreverent  commentator.  When  Governor  Hobby  of 
Texas  issues  a  call  for  the  state  cavalry.  When  one 
of  your  clients  drops  in,  in  the  goodness  of  his  heart, 
to  give  you  his  own  definition  of  a  pessimist — a 
pessimist,  he  says,  is  a  man  who  wears  both  belt  and 
suspenders.  When  a  big  jewellery  firm  in  the  city 
puts  out  a  large  ad — 

Bailey,  Banks  &  Biddle  Company 

Watches  for  Women 

Of  Superior  Design  and  Perfection 

of  Movement 

all  that  one  needs  to  do  to  that  is  to  write  over  it  the 
caption 

SO  DO   WE  ALL 

and  pass  on  to  the  next  paragraph. 
[38] 


Confessions  of  a  "Colyumist' 

The  more  a  colyumist  is  out  on  the  streets,  making 
himself  the  reporter  of  the  moods  and  oddities  of 
men,  the  better  his  stuff  will  be.  It  seems  to  me  that 
his  job  ought  to  be  good  training  for  a  novelist, 
as  it  teaches  him  a  habit  of  human  sensitiveness. 
He  becomes  filled  with  an  extraordinary  curiosity 
about  the  motives  and  purposes  of  the  people  he 
sees.  The  other  afternoon  I  was  very  much  struck 
by  the  unconscious  pathos  of  a  little,  gentle-eyed 
old  man  who  was  standing  on  Chestnut  Street 
studying  a  pocket  note-book.  His  umbrella  leaned 
against  a  shop-window,  on  the  sill  of  which  he  had 
laid  a  carefully  rolled-up  newspaper.  By  his  feet 
was  a  neat  leather  brief-case,  plumply  filled  with 
contents  not  discernible.  There  he  stood  (a 
sort  of  unsuccessful  Cyrus  Curtis),  very  dimin 
utive,  his  gray  hair  rather  long  abaft  his  neck, 
his  yellowish  straw  hat  (with  curly  brim)  tilted 
backward  as  though  in  perplexity,  his  timid  and 
absorbed  blue  eyes  poring  over  his  memorandum- 
book  which  was  full  of  pencilled  notes.  He  had  a 
slightly  unkempt,  brief  beard  and  whiskers,  his 
cheek-bones  pinkish,  his  linen  a  little  frayed.  There 
was  something  strangely  pathetic  about  him,  and  I 
would  have  given  much  to  have  been  able  to  speak 
to  him.  I  halted  at  a  window  farther  down  the 
street  and  studied  him;  then  returned  to  pass  him 
again,  and  watched  him  patiently.  He  stood  quite 
absorbed,  and  was  still  there  when  I  went  on. 

[39] 


Pipefuls 

That  is  just  one  of  the  thousands  of  vivid  little 
pictures  one  sees  on  the  city  streets  day  by  day.  To 
catch  some  hint  of  the  meaning  of  all  this,  to  present 
a  few  scrawled  notes  of  the  amazing  interest  and 
colour  of  the  city's  life,  this  is  the  colyumist's  task  as 
I  see  it.  It  is  a  task  not  a  whit  less  worthy,  less 
painful,  or  less  baffling  than  that  of  the  most  con 
scientious  novelist.  And  it  is  carried  on  in  sur 
roundings  of  extraordinary  stimulation  and  difficulty. 
It  is  heart-racking  to  struggle  day  by  day,  amid 
incessant  interruption  and  melee,  to  snatch  out 
of  the  hurly-burly  some  shreds  of  humour  or  pathos 
or  (dare  one  say?)  beauty,  and  phrase  them  in 
telligibly. 

But  it  is  fun.  One  never  buys  a  package  of  to 
bacco,  crosses  a  city  square,  enters  a  trolley-car  or 
studies  a  shop-window  without  trying,  in  a  baffled, 
hopeless  way,  to  peer  through  the  frontage  of  the 
experience,  to  find  some  glimmer  of  the  thoughts, 
emotions,  and  meanings  behind.  And  in  the  long 
run  such  a  habit  of  inquiry  must  bear  fruit  in  under 
standing  and  sympathy.  Joseph  Conrad  (who 
seems,  by  the  way,  to  be  more  read  by  newspaper 
men  than  any  other  writer)  put  very  nobly  the  pin 
nacle  of  all  scribblers'  dreams  when  he  said  that 
human  affairs  deserve  the  tribute  of  "a  sigh  which 
is  not  a  sob,  a  smile  which  is  not  a  grin." 

So  much,  with  apology,  for  the  ideals  of  the 
colyumist,  if  he  be  permitted  to  speak  truth  without 
[40] 


Confessions  of  a  "Colyumist" 

fear  of  mockery.  Of  course  in  the  actual  process  and 
travail  of  his  job  you  will  find  him  far  different. 
You  may  know  him  by  a  sunken,  brooding  eye; 
clothing  marred  by  much  tobacco,  and  a  chafed  and 
tetchy  humour  toward  the  hour  of  five  p.  M.  Having 
bitterly  schooled  himself  to  see  men  as  paragraphs 
walking,  he  finds  that  his  most  august  musings  have 
a  habit  of  stewing  themselves  down  to  some  ferocious 
or  jocular  three-line  comment.  He  may  yearn  des 
perately  to  compose  a  really  thrilling  poem  that  will 
speak  his  passionate  soul;  to  churn  up  from  the 
typewriter  some  lyric  that  will  rock  with  blue  seas 
and  frantic  hearts;  he  finds  himself  allaying  the 
frenzy  with  some  jovial  sneer  at  Henry  Ford  or  a 
yell  about  the  High  Cost  of  Living.  Poor  soul,  he 
is  like  one  condemned  to  harangue  the  vast,  idiotic 
world  through  a  keyhole,  whence  his  anguish  issues 
thin  and  faint.  Yet  who  will  say  that  all  his  labour 
is  wholly  vain?  Perhaps  some  day  the  government 
will  crown  a  Colyumist  Laureate,  some  majestic 
sage  with  ancient  patient  blue  eyes  and  a  snowy 
beard  nobly  stained  with  nicotine,  whose  utterances 
will  be  heeded  with  shuddering  respect.  All  minor 
colyumists  will  wear  robes  and  sandals;  they  will  be 
an  order  of  scoffing  friars;  people  will  run  to  them 
on  crowded  streets  to  lay  before  them  the  sorrows 
and  absurdities  of  men.  And  in  that  day 

The  meanest  paragraph  that  blows  will  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  sneers. 


MOVING 


MAN,  we  suspect,  is  the  only  animal  capable  of 
persuading  himself  that  his  hardships  are 
medicine  to  the  soul,  of  flattering  himself  into  a  con 
viction  that  some  mortal  spasm  was  a  fortifying 
discipline. 

Having  just  moved  our  household  goods  for  the 
fourth  time  in  four  years,  we  now  find  ourself  in  the 
singular  state  of  trying  to  believe  that  the  horrors  of 
the  event  have  added  to  our  supply  of  spiritual 
resignation.  Well,  let  us  see. 

The  brutal  task  of  taking  one's  home  on  trek  is  (we 

[42] 


Moving 

can  argue)  a  stirring  tonic,  a  kind  of  private  rehearsal 
of  the  Last  Judgment,  when  the  sheep  shall  be 
divided  from  the  shoats.  What  could  be  a  more  con 
vincing  reminder  of  the  instability  of  man's  affairs 
than  the  harrowing  upheaval  of  our  cherished 
properties?  Those  dark  angels,  the  moving  men, 
how  heartless  they  seem  in  their  brisk  and  resolute 
dispassion — yet  how  exactly  they  prefigure  the 
implacable  sternness  of  the  ultimate  shepherds.  A 
strange  life  is  theirs,  taking  them  day  after  day  into 
the  bosom  of  homes  prostrated  by  the  emigrating 
throe.  Does  this  matter-of-fact  bearing  conceal  an 
infinite  tenderness,  a  pity  that  dare  not  show  itself 
for  fear  of  unmanly  collapse?  Are  they  secretly 
broken  by  the  sight  of  the  desolate  nursery,  the  dis 
mantled  crib,  the  forgotten  clockwork  monkey 
lying  in  a  corner  of  the  cupboard  where  the  helpless 
Urchin  laid  it  with  care  before  he  and  his  smaller 
sister  were  deported,  to  be  out  of  the  way  in  the  final 
storm?  Does  the  o'ermastering  pathos  of  a  modest 
household  turned  inside  out,  its  tender  vitals  dis 
played  to  the  passing  world,  wring  their  breasts? 
Stoic  men,  if  so,  they  well  conceal  their  pangs. 

They  have  one  hopelessly  at  a  disadvantage.  In 
the  interval  that  always  elapses  before  the  arrival  of 
the  second  van,  there  is  a  little  social  chat  and  utter 
ance  of  reminiscences.  There  is  a  lively  snapping  of 
matchheads  on  thumbnails,  and  seated  at  ease  in  the 
debris  of  the  dismantled  living  room  our  friends  will 

[43] 


Pipefuls 

tell  of  the  splendour  of  some  households  they  have 
moved  before.  The  thirty-eight  barrels  of  gilt 
porcelain,  the  twenty  cases  of  oil  paintings,  the  satin- 
wood  grand  piano  that  their  spines  twinge  to  recall. 
Once  our  furnitures  were  moved  by  a  crew  of  lusty 
athletes  who  had  previously  done  the  same  for  Mr. 
Ivy  Lee,  and  while  we  sat  in  shamed  silence  we  heard 
the  tale  of  Mr.  Lee's  noble  possessions.  Of  what 
avail  would  it  have  been  for  us  to  protest  that  we  love 
our  stuff  as  much  as  Mr.  Lee  did  his?  No,  we  had  a 
horrid  impulse  to  cry  apology,  and  beg  them  to  hurl 
the  things  into  the  van  anyhow,  just  to  end  the  agony. 
This  interval  of  social  chat  being  prolonged  by  the 
blizzard,  the  talk  is  likely  to  take  a  more  ominous 
turn.  We  are  told  how,  only  last  week,  a  sister  van 
was  hit  by  a  train  at  a  crossing  and  carried  a  hundred 
yards  on  the  engine  pilot.  Two  of  the  men  were 
killed,  though  one  of  these  lived  from  eleven  o'clock 
Saturday  morning  until  eleven  o'clock  Monday 
night.  How,  after  hearing  this,  can  one  ask  what 
happened  to  the  furniture,  even  if  one  is  indecent 
enough  to  think  of  it?  Then  one  learns  of  another  of 
the  fleet,  stalled  in  a  drift  on  the  way  to  Harrisburg, 
and  hasn't  been  heard  from  for  forty-eight  hours. 
Sitting  in  subdued  silence,  one  remembers  something 
about  "moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field,"  and 
thanks  fortune  that  these  pitiful  oddments  are  only 
going  to  a  storage  warehouse,  not  to  be  transported 
thence  until  the  kindly  season  of  spring. 
[44] 


Moving 

But  packing  for  storage  instead  of  for  moving 
implies  subtler  and  more  painful  anguishes.  Here 
indeed  we  have  a  tonic  for  the  soul,  for  election  must 
be  made  among  one's  belongings:  which  are  to  be 
stored,  and  which  to  accompany?  Take  the  subject 
of  books  for  instance.  Horrid  hesitation:  can  we 
subsist  for  four  or  five  months  on  nothing  but  the 
"Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse"  and  Boswell's  John 
son?  Suppose  we  want  to  look  up  a  quotation,  in 
those  late  hours  of  the  night  when  all  really  worth 
while  reading  is  done?  Our  memory  is  knitted  with 
a  wide  mesh.  Suppose  we  want  to  be  sure  just  what 
it  was  that  Shakespeare  said  happened  to  him  in  his 
"sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought,"  what  are  we  going 
to  do?  We  will  have  to  fall  back  on  the  customary 
recourse  of  the  minor  poet — if  you  can't  remember 
one  of  Shakespeare's  sonnets,  at  least  you  can  write 
one  of  your  own  instead.  Speaking  of  literature,  it 
is  a  curious  thing  that  the  essayists  have  so  neglected 
this  topic  of,  moving.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  know 
how  the  good  and  the  great  have  faced  this  peculiarly 
terrible  crisis  of  domestic  affairs.  When  the  Bard 
himself  moved  back  to  Stratford  after  his  years  in 
London,  what  did  he  think  about  it?  How  did  he 
get  all  his  papers  packed  up,  and  did  he,  in  mere 
weariness,  destroy  the  half-done  manuscripts  of 
plays?  Charles  Lamb  moved  round  London  a  good 
deal;  did  he  never  write  of  his  experience?  We  like 
to  think  of  Emerson:  did  he  ever^move,  and  if  so, 

[45] 


Pipefuls 

how  did  he  behave  when  the  fatal  day  came?  Did 
he  sit  on  a  packing  case  and  utter  sepulchral  aph 
orisms?  Think  of  Lord  Bacon  and  how  he  would 
have  crystallized  the  matter  in  a  phrase. 

Of  course  in  bachelor  days  moving  may  be  a  huge 
lark,  a  humorous  escapade.  We  remember  some 
high-spirited  young  men,  three  of  them,  who  were 
moving  their  chattels  from  rooms  on  Twenty-first 
Street  to  a  flat  on  Irving  Place.  Frugality  was 
their  necessary  watchword,  and  they  hired  a  push 
cart  in  which  to  transport  the  dunnage.  It  was 
necessary  to  do  this  on  Sunday,  and  one  of  the  trio, 
more  sensitive  than  the  others,  begged  that  they 
should  rise  and  accomplish  the  public  shame  early  in 
the  morning,  before  the  streets  were  alive.  In 
particular,  he  begged,  let  the  route  be  chosen  to 
avoid  a  certain  club  on  Gramercy  Park  where  he  had 
many  friends,  and  where  he  was  loath  to  be  seen 
pushing  his  humble  intimacies.  The  others,  scent 
ing  sport,  and  brazenly  hardy  of  spirit,  contrived  to 
delay  the  start  on  one  pretext  or  another  until  the 
middle  of  the  forenoon.  Then,  by  main  force, 
ignoring  his  bitter  protest,  they  impelled  the  stagger 
ing  vehicle,  grossly  overloaded,  past  the  very  door  of 
the  club  my  friend  had  wished  to  avoid.  Here,  by 
malicious  inspiration,  they  tilted  the  wain  to  one 
side  and  strewed  the  paving  with  their  property. 
They  skipped  nimbly  round  the  corner,  and  with 
highly  satisfactory  laughter  watched  then*  blushing 
[46] 


Moving 

partner  labouring  dismally  to  collect  the  fragments. 
Some  of  his  friends  issuing  from  the  club  lent  a  hand, 
and  the  joy  of  the  conspirators  was  complete. 

But  to  the  family  man,  moving  is  no  such  airy 
picnic.  Sadly  he  goes  through  the  last  dismal  rites 
and  sees  the  modest  fragments  of  his  dominion 
hustled  toward  the  cold  sepulture  of  a  motor  van. 
Before  the  toughened  bearing  of  the  hirelings  he 
doubts  what  manner  to  assume.  Shall  he  stand  at 
the  front  door  and  exhort  them  to  particular  care 
with  each  sentimental  item,  crying  "Be  careful  with 
that  little  chair;  that's  the  one  the  Urchin  uses  when 
he  eats  his  evening  prunes!"  Or  shall  he  adopt  a 
gruesome  sarcasm,  hoping  to  awe  them  by  conveying 
the  impression  that  even  if  the  whole  van  should  be 
splintered  in  collision,  he  can  get  more  at  the  nearest 
department  store?  Whatever  policy  he  adopts,  they 
will  not  be  much  impressed.  For,  when  we  handed 
our  gratuity,  not  an  ungenerous  one,  to  the  driver, 
asking  him  to  divide  it  among  the  gang,  we  were 
startled  to  hear  them  burst  into  loud  screams  of 
mirth.  We  asked,  grimly,  the  cause.  It  appeared 
that  during  the  work  one  of  our  friends,  apparently 
despairing  of  any  pourboire  appropriate  to  his  own 
conceptions  of  reward,  had  sold  his  share  of  the  tip 
to  the  driver  for  fifteen  cents.  We  are  not  going  to 
say  how  much  he  lost  by  so  doing.  But  this  gamble 
put  the  driver  in  such  a  good  humour  that  we  believe 
he  will  keep  away  from  railroad  crossings. 


SURF  FISHING 


ALL  day  long  you  see  them  stand  thigh-deep  in 
the  surf,  fishing.  Up  on  the  beach  each  one 
has  a  large  basket  containing  clams  for  bait,  extra 
hooks  and  leaders,  a  little  can  of  oil  for  the  reel,  and 
any  particular  doo-dads  dear  to  the  heart  of  the 
individual  fisherman.  And  an  old  newspaper,  all 
ready  to  protect  the  anticipated  catch  from  the  rays 
of  the  sun. 

Some  of  them  wear  bathing  suits;  others  rubber 
hip-boots,  or  simply  old  clothes  that  won't  mind 
getting  wet.  If  they  are  very  full  of  swank  they 
will  have  a  leather  belt  with  a  socket  to  hold  the 
butt  of  the  rod.  Every  now  and  then  you  will  see 
them  pacing  backward  up  the  beach,  reeling  in  the 
[48] 


Surf  Fishing 

i 

line.  They  will  mutter  something  about  a  big 
strike  that  time,  and  he  got  away  with  the  bait. 
With  zealous  care  they  spear  some  more  clam  on  the 
hook,  twisting  it  over  and  over  the  barb  so  as  to  be 
firmly  impaled.  Then,  with  careful  precision,  they 
fling  the  line  with  its  heavy  pyramid  sinker  far  out 
beyond  the  line  of  breakers. 

There  they  stand.  What  do  they  think  about, 
one  wonders?  But  what  does  any  one  think  about 
when  fishing?  That  is  one  of  the  happy  pastimes 
that  don't  require  much  thinking.  The  long  ridges 
of  surf  crumble  about  their  knees  and  the  sun  and 
keen  vital  air  lull  them  into  a  cheerful  drowse  of  the 
faculties.  Do  they  speculate  on  the  never-ending 
fascination  of  the  leaning  walls  of  water,  the  rhyth 
mical  melody  of  the  rasp  and  hiss  of  the  water?  Do 
they  watch  that  indescribable  beauty  of  the  breaking 
wave,  a  sight  as  old  as  humankind  and  yet  never 
so  described  that  one  who  has  not  seen  it  could 
picture  it? 

The  wave  gathers  height  and  speed  as  it  moves 
toward  the  sand.  It  seems  to  pull  itself  together  for 
the  last  plunge.  The  first  wave  that  ever  rolled  up  to 
a  beach  probably  didn't  break.  It  just  slid.  It  was 
only  the  second  wave  that  broke — curled  over  in  that 
curious  way.  For  our  theory — which  may  be 
entirely  wrong — is  that  the  breaking  is  due  to  the 
undertow  of  previous  waves.  After  a  wave  sprawls 
up  on  the  beach,  it  runs  swiftly  back.  This  receding 

[49] 


Pipefuls 

undercurrent — you  can  feel  it  very  strongly  if  you 
are  swimming  just  in  front  of  a  large  wave  about  to 
break — digs  in  beneath  the  advancing  hill  of  water. 
It  cuts  away  the  foundations  of  that  hill,  which 
naturally  topples  over  at  the  crest. 

The  wave  of  water  leans  and  hangs  for  a  delaying 
instant.  The  actual  cascade  may  begin  at  one  end 
and  run  along  the  length  of  the  ridge;  it  may  begin 
at  both  ends  and  twirl  inward,  meeting  in  the 
middle;  it  may  (but  very  rarely)  begin  in  the  middle 
and  work  outward.  As  the  billow  is  at  its  height,  be 
fore  it  combs  over,  the  fisherman  sees  the  sunlight 
gleaming  through  it — an  ecstasy  of  perfect  lucid 
green,  with  the  glimmer  of  yellow  sand  behind. 
Then,  for  a  brief  moment — so  brief  that  the  details 
can  never  be  memorized — he  sees  a  clear  crystal 
screen  of  water  falling  forward.  Another  instant, 
and  it  is  all  a  boil  of  snowy  suds  seething  about  his 
legs.  He  may  watch  it  a  thousand  times,  a  million 
times;  it  will  never  be  old,  never  wholly  familiar. 
Colour  varies  from  hour  to  hour,  from  day  to  day. 
Sometimes  blue  or  violet,  sometimes  green-olive  or 
gray.  The  backwash  tugs  at  his  boots,  hollowing 
out  little  channels  under  his  feet.  The  sun  wraps 
him  round  like  a  mantle;  the  salt  crusts  and  thickens 
in  his  hair.  And  then,  when  he  has  forgotten  every 
thing  save  the  rhythm  of  the  falling  waves,  there 
comes  a  sudden  tug 

He  reels  in,  and  a  few  curious  bathers  stand  still 
[50] 


Surf  Fishing 

in  the  surf  to  see  what  he  has  got.  They  are  inclined 
to  be  scornful.  It  is  such  a  little  fish!  One  would 
think  that  such  a  vast  body  of  water  would  be 
ashamed  to  yield  only  so  small  a  prize.  Never  mind. 
He  has  compensations  they  wot  not  of.  Moreover — 
although  he  would  hardly  admit  it  himself — the 
fishing  business  is  only  a  pretext.  How  else  could  a 
grown  man  with  grizzled  hair  have  an  excuse  to 
stand  all  day  paddling  in  the  surf? 


[51] 


'IDOLATRY" 


ONCE  in  a  while,  when  the  name  of  R.  L.  S.  is 
mentioned  in  conversation,  someone  says  to 
us:  "Ah  well,  you're  one  of  the  Stevenson  idolaters, 
aren't  you?"  And  this  is  said  with  a  curious  air  of 
cynical  superiority,  as  of  one  who  has  experienced  all 
these  things  and  is  superbly  tolerant  of  the  shallow 
mind  that  can  still  admire  Tusitala.  His  work 
(such  people  will  generally  tell  you)  was  brilliant 
but  "artificial"  .  .  .  and  for  the  true  certifi 
cated  milk  of  the  word  one  must  come  along  to  such 
modern  giants  as  Dreiser  and  Hergesheimer  and 
Cabell.  For  these  artists,  each  in  his  due  place,  we 
have  only  the  most  genial  respect.  But  when  the 
passion  of  our  youth  is  impugned  as  "idolatry"  we 
feel  in  our  spirit  an  intense  weariness.  We  feel  the 


"Idolatry" 

pacifism  of  the  wise  and  secretive  mind  that  remains 
tacit  when  its  most  perfect  inward  certainties  are 
assailed.  One  does  not  argue,  for  there  are  certain 
things  not  arguable.  One  shrugs.  After  all,  what 
human  gesture  more  eloquent  (or  more  satisfying  to 
the  performer)  than  the  shrug? 

There  is  a  little  village  on  the  skirts  of  the  Forest 
of  Fontainebleau  (heavenly  region  of  springtime  and 
romance!)  where  the  crystal-green  eddies  of  the 
Loing  slip  under  an  old  gray  bridge  with  sharp  angled 
piers  of  stone.  Near  the  bridge  is  a  quiet  little  inn, 
one  of  the  many  happy  places  in  that  country  long 
frequented  by  artists  for  painting  and  "vilttgiatvre." 
Behind  the  inn  is  a  garden  beside  the  river-bank. 
The  salle  a  manger,  as  in  so  many  of  those  inns  at 
Barbizon,  Moret,  and  the  other  Fontainebleau 
villages,  is  panelled  and  frescoed  with  humorous  and 
high-spirited  impromptus  done  by  visiting  painters. 

In  the  summer  of  1876  an  anxious  rumour  passed 
among  the  artist  colonies.  It  was  said  that  an 
American  lady  and  her  two  children  had  arrived  at 
Grez,  and  the  young  bohemians  who  regarded  this 
region  as  their  own  sacred  retreat  were  startled  and 
alarmed.  Were  their  chosen  haunts  to  be  invaded 
by  tourists — and  tourists  of  the  disturbing  sex? 
Among  three  happy  irresponsibles  this  humorous 
anxiety  was  particularly  acute.  One  of  the  trio  was 
sent  over  to  Grez  as  a  scout,  to  spy  out  the  situation 
and  report.  The  emissary  went,  and  failed  to 

[531 


Pipefuls 

return.  A  second  explorer  was  dispatched  to  study 
the  problem.  He,  too,  was  swallowed  up  in  silence. 
The  third,  impatiently  waiting  tidings  from  his 
faithless  friends,  set  out  to  make  an  end  of  this 
mystery.  He  reached  the  inn  at  dusk:  it  was  a 
gentle  summer  evening;  the  windows  were  open  to 
the  tender  air;  lamps  were  lit  within,  and  a  merry 
party  sat  at  dinner.  Through  the  open  window 
the  suspicious  venturer  saw  the  recreant  ambassa 
dors,  gay  with  laughter.  And  there,  sitting  in  the 
lamplight,  was  the  American  lady — a  slender, 
thoughtful  enchantress  with  eyes  as  dark  and  glow 
ing  as  the  wine.  Thus  it  was  that  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  first  saw  Fanny  Osbourne. 

A  few  days  later  Mrs.  Osbourne's  eighteen-year- 
old  daughter  Isobel  wrote  in  a  letter:  "There  is  a 
young  Scotchman  here,  a  Mr.  Stevenson.  He  is 
such  a  nice-looking  ugly  man,  and  I  would  rather 
listen  to  him  talk  than  read  the  most  interesting 
book.  .  .  .  Mama  is  ever  so  much  better  and  is 
getting  prettier  every  day." 

"The  Life  of  Mrs.  Robert  Louis  Stevenson," 
written  by  her  sister  Mrs.  Sanchez  (the  mother  of 
"little  Louis  Sanchez  on  the  beach  at  Monterey" 
remembered  by  lovers  of  "A  Child's  Garden  of 
Verses")  is  a  book  that  none  of  the  so-called  idolaters 
will  want  to  overlook.  The  romantic  excitements 
of  R.  L.  S.'s  youth  were  tame  indeed  compared 
to  those  of  Fanny  Van  de  Grift.  R.  L.  S.  had 
[54] 


"Idolatry" 

been  thrilled  enough  by  a  few  nights  spent  in  the 
dark  with  the  docile  ass  of  the  Cevennes;  but  here 
was  one,  sprung  from  sober  Philadelphia  blood, 
born  in  Indianapolis  and  baptized  by  Henry  Ward 
Beecher,  who  had  pioneered  across  the  fabled 
Isthmus,  lived  in  the  roaring  mining  camps  of 
Nevada,  worked  for  a  dressmaker  in  Frisco,  and 
venturously  taken  her  young  children  to  Belgium 
and  France  to  study  art.  She  had  been  married  at 
seventeen,  had  already  once  thought  herself  to  be 
a  widow  in  fact  by  the  temporary  disappearance 
of  her  first  husband;  and  was  now,  after  enduring 
repeated  infidelities,  prepared  to  make  herself  a 
widow  in  law.  Daring  horse  woman,  a  good  shot, 
a  supreme  cook,  artist,  writer,  and  a  very  Gene 
Stratton  Porter  among  flowers,  fearless,  beautiful, 
and  of  unique  charm — where  could  another  woman 
have  been  found  so  marvellously  gifted  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  romancer?  It  seems  odd  that  Philadelphia 
and  Edinburgh,  the  two  most  conservatively  minded 
cities  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  earth,  should  have  com 
bined  to  produce  this,  the  most  radiant  pair  of 
adventurers  in  our  recent  annals. 

The  reading  of  this  delightful  book  has  taken  us 
back  into  the  very  pang  and  felicity  of  our  first  great 
passion — our  idolatry,  if  you  will — which  we  are 
proud  here  and  now  to  re-avow.  When  was  there 
ever  a  happier  or  more  wholesome  worship  for  a  boy 
than  the  Stevenson  mania  on  which  so  many  of  this 

[55] 


Pipefuls 

generation  grew  up?  We  were  the  luckier  in  that 
our  zeal  was  shared  in  all  its  gusto  and  particularity 
by  a  lean,  long-legged,  sallow-faced,  brown-eyed 
eccentric  (himself  incredibly  Stevensonian  in  ap 
pearance)  with  whom  we  lay  afield  in  our  later  teens, 
reading  R.  L.  S.  aloud  by  the  banks  of  a  small  stream 
which  we  vowed  should  become  famous  in  the  world 
of  letters.  And  so  it  has,  though  not  by  our  efforts, 
which  was  what  we  had  designed;  for  at  the  crystal 
headwater  of  that  same  creek  was  penned  "The 
Amenities  of  Book  Collecting,"  that  enchanting 
volume  of  bookish  essays  which  has  swelled  the  corre 
spondence  of  a  Philadelphia  business  man  to  insane 
proportions,  and  even  brought  him  offers  from  three 
newspapers  to  conduct  a  book  page.  It  seems  ap 
propriate  to  the  present  chronicler  that  in  a  quiet 
library  overlooking  the  clear  fount  and  origin  of 
dear  Darby  Creek  there  are  several  of  the  most 
cherished  association  volumes  of  R.  L.  S. — we  think 
particularly  of  the  "Child's  Garden  of  Verses" 
which  he  gave  to  Cummy,  and  the  manuscript  of 
little  "Smoutie's"  very  first  book,  the  "History  of 
Moses." 

Was  there  ever  a  more  joyous  covenant  of  affec 
tion  than  that  of  Mifflin  McGill  and  ourself  in  our 
boyish  madness  for  Tusitala?  It  is  a  happy  circum 
stance,  we  say,  for  a  youth,  before  the  multiplying 
responsibilities  of  maturity  press  upon  him,  to  pour 
[56] 


"Idolatry" 

out  his  enthusiasm  in  an  obsession  such  as  that;  and 
when  this  passion  can  be  shared  and  doubled  and 
knitted  in  partnership  with  an  equally  freakish,  in 
sane,  and  innocent  idiot  (such  as  our  generously  mad 
friend  Mifflin)  admirable  adventures  are  sure  to 
follow.  The  quest  begun  on  Darby  Creek  took  us 
later  on  an  all-summer  progress  among  places  in 
England  arid  Scotland  hallowed  to  us  by  association 
with  R.  L.  S.  Never,  in  any  young  lives  past  or  to 
come,  could  there  be  an  instant  of  purer  excitement 
and  glory  than  when,  after  bicycling  hotly  all  day 
with  the  blue  outline  of  Arthur's  Seat  apparently 
always  receding  before  us,  we  trundled  grimly  into 
Auld  Reekie  and  set  out  for  the  old  Stevenson  home 
at  17  Heriot  Row,  halting  only  to  bestow  our 
pneumatic  steeds  in  the  nearest  and  humblest  avail 
able  hostelry.  There  (for  we  found  the  house 
empty  and  "To  Let")  we  sat  on  the  doorstep  even 
ing  by  evening,  smoking  in  the  long  northern 
twilight  and  spuming  our  youthful  dreams.  This 
lust  for  hunting  out  our  favourite  author's  footsteps 
even  led  one  of  the  pair  to  a  place  perhaps  never 
visited  by  any  other  Stevensonian  pilgrim — old 
Cockfield  Rectory,  in  Suffolk,  where  Mrs.  Sitwell 
and  Sidney  Colvin  first  met  the  bright-eyed  Scotch 
boy  in  1873.  The  tracker  of  footprints  remembers 
how  kind  were  the  then  occupants  of  the  old  rectory, 
and  how,  in  a  daze  of  awe,  he  trod  the  green  and 
tranquil  lawn  and  hastened  to  visit  a  cottage  near  by 

.[57] 


Pipefuls 

where  there  was  an  ancient  rustic  who  had  been 
coachman  at  the  rectory  when  R.  L.  S.  stayed  there, 
fabled  to  retain  some  pithy  recollection.  Alas,  the 
Suffolk  ancient,  eager  enough  to  share  tobacco  and 
speech,  would  only  mull  over  his  memories  of  a 
previous  rector,  describing  how  it  had  fallen  to  him 
to  prepare  the  good  man  for  burial;  how  he  smiled  in 
death  and  his  cheeks  were  as  rosy  as  a  babe's. 

It  would  take  many  pages  to  narrate  all  the 
bypaths  and  happy  excursions  trod  by  these  simple 
youths  in  their  quest  of  the  immortal  Louis.  The 
memories  come  bustling,  and  one  knows  not  where  to 
stop.  The  supreme  adventure,  for  one  of  the  pair, 
lay  in  the  kindness  of  Sir  Sidney  Colvin.  To  this 
prince  of  gentlemen  and  scholars  one  of  these  lads 
wrote,  sending  his  letter  (with  subtle  cunning)  from 
a  village  in  Suffolk  only  a  few  miles  from  Sir  Sidney's 
boyhood  home.  He  calculated  that  this  might 
arouse  the  interest  of  Sir  Sidney,  whom  he  know  to 
be  cruelly  badgered  with  letters  from  enthusiasts; 
and  fortune  turned  in  his  favour,  granting  him 
numerous  ecstatic  visits  to  Sir  Sidney  and  Lady 
Colvin  and  much  unwarranted  generosity.  But, 
since  our  mind  has  been  turned  in  this  direction  by 
Mrs.  Sanchez's  book,  it  might  be  appropriate  to  add 
that  one  of  the  most  thrilling  moments  in  the  crusade 
was  a  season  of  April  days  spent  beside  the  green  and 
stripling  Loing,  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau  region, 
visiting  those  lovely  French  villages  where  R.  L.  S. 
[58] 


"Idolatry" 

roamed  as  a  young  man,  crowned  by  an  afternoon 
at  Grez.  One  remembers  the  old  gray  bridge  across 
the  eddying  water,  and  the  door  of  the  inn  where  the 
young  pilgrim  lingered,  trying  to  visualize  scenes  of 
thirty-five  years  before. 

It  is  not  mere  idolatry  when  the  hearts  of  the 
young  are  haunted  by  such  spells.  There  was  some 
real  divinity  behind  the  enchantment,  some  mar 
vellous  essence  that  made  all  roads  Tusitala  trod  the 
Road  of  Loving  Hearts.  In  these  matters  we  would 
trust  the  simple  Samoans  to  come  nearer  the  truth 
than  our  cynic  friend  in  Greenwich  Village.  The 
magic  of  that  great  name  abides  unimpaired. 


[59] 


THE  FIRST  COMMENCEMENT  ADDRESS 

(Delivered  to  Cain  and  Abel,  the  first  graduating  class 
of  the  Garden  of  Eden  Normal  School) 


MY  YOUNG  FRIENDS— It  is  a  privilege  to  be 
permitted  to  address  you  this  morning,  for 
I  am  convinced  that  never  in  the  world's  history  did 
the  age  beckon  with  so  eager  a  gesture  to  the  young 
men  on  the  threshold  of  active  life.  Never  indeed  in 
the  past,  and  certainly  never  in  the  future,  was  there 
or  will  there  be  a  time  more  deeply  fraught  with 
significance.  And  as  I  gaze  upon  your  keen  faces  it 
seems  almost  as  though  the  world  had  amassed  all 
the  problems  that  now  confront  us  merely  in  order 
to  give  you  tasks  worthy  of  your  prowess. 

The  world,  I  think  I  may  safely  say,  is  smaller  now 
than  ever  before.     The  recent  invention  of  young 
[60] 


First  Commencement  Address 

women,  something  quite  new  in  the  way  of  a  social 
problem,  has  introduced  a  hitherto  undreamed-of 
complexity  into  human  affairs.  The  extreme 
rapidity  with  which  ideas  and  thoughts  now  circu 
late,  due  to  the  new  invention  of  speech,  makes  it 
probable  that  what  is  said  in  Eden  to-day  will  be 
known  in  the  land  of  Nod  within  a  year.  The 
greatest  need  is  plainly  for  big-visioned  and  purpose 
ful  men,  efficient  men,  men  with  forward-looking 
minds.  I  hope  you  will  pattern  after  your  admir 
able  father  in  this  respect;  he  truly  was  a  forward- 
looking  man,  for  he  had  nothing  to  look  back  on. 

You  are  aware,  however,  that  your  father  has  had 
serious  problems  to  deal  with,  and  it  is  well  that  you 
should  consider  those  problems  in  the  light  of  the 
experiences  you  are  about  to  face.  One  of  his  most 
perplexing  difficulties  would  never  have  come  upon 
him  if  he  had  not  fallen  into  a  deep  sleep.  I  counsel 
you,  therefore,  be  wary  not  to  overslumber.  The 
prizes  of  life  always  come  to  those  who  press  reso 
lutely  on,  undaunted  by  fatigue  and  discouragement. 
Another  of  your  father's  failings  was  probably  due  to 
the  fact  that  he  was  never  a  small  boy  and  thus  had 
no  chance  to  work  the  deviltry  out  of  his  system. 
You  yourselves  have  been  abundantly  blessed  in  this 
regard.  I  think  I  may  say  that  here,  hi  our  Normal 
Academy,  you  have  had  an  almost  ideal  playground 
to  work  off  those  boyish  high  spirits,  to  perpetrate 
those  mischievous  pranks  that  the  world  expects  of 

[Cl] 


Pipefuls 

its  young.  Remember  that  you  are  now  going  out 
into  the  mature  work  of  life,  where  you  will  en 
counter  serious  problems. 

As  you  wend  your  way  from  these  accustomed 
shades  into  the  full  glare  of  public  life  you  will  do  so, 
I  hope,  with  the  consciousness  that  the  eyes  of  the 
world  are  upon  you.  The  sphere  of  activity  in 
which  you  may  find  yourselves  called  upon  to  per 
form  may  be  restricted,  but  you  will  remember  that 
not  failure  but  low  aim  is  base.  You  will  hold  a  just 
balance  between  the  conflicting  tendencies  of  radical 
ism  and  conservatism.  You  will  endeavour  to 
secure  for  labour  its  due  share  in  the  profits  of  labour. 
You  will  not  be  forgetful  that  all  government  de 
pends  in  the  last  resort  on  the  consent  of  the  gov 
erned.  These  catch  words  in  the  full  flush  of  your 
youth  you  may  be  inclined  to  dismiss  as  truisms,  but 
I  assure  you  that  10,000  years  from  now  men  will  be 
uttering  them  with  the  same  air  of  discovery. 

It  is  my  great  pleasure  to  confer  upon  you  both 
the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  and  to  pray  that  you 
may  never  bring  discredit  upon  your  alma  mater. 


[62] 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  GEORGE  SNIPE 


EORGE  SNIPE  was  an  ardent  book-lover,  and 
V_T  sat  in  the  smoking  car  in  a  state  of  suspended 
ecstasy.  He  had  been  invited  out  to  Mandrake 
Park  to  visit  the  library  of  Mr.  Genial  Girth,  the 
well-known  collector  of  rare  autographed  books. 
Devoted  amateur  of  literature  as  he  was,  George's 
humble  career  rarely  brought  him  into  contact  with 
bookish  treasures,  and  a  tremulous  excitement  swam 
through  his  brain  as  he  thought  of  the  glories 
he  was  about  to  see.  In  his  devout  meditation  the 
train  carried  him  a  station  beyond  his  alighting 
place,  and  he  ran  frantically  back  through  the  well- 
groomed  suburban  countryside  in  order  to  reach  Mr. 
Girth's  home  on  time. 

They  went  through  the  library  together.  Mr. 
Girth  displayed  all  his  fascinating  prizes  with 
generous  good  nature,  and  George  grew  excited. 
The  palms  of  his  hands  were  clammy  with  agitation. 
All  round  the  room,  encased  in  scarlet  slip-covers  of 
tooled  morocco,  on  fireproof  shelves,  were  the  price 
less  booty  of  the  collector.  Here  was  Charles 
Lamb's  "Essays  of  Elia,"  inscribed  by  the  author  to 
the  woman  he  loved.  Here  was  a  copy  of  "Paradise 

[63] 


Pipefuls 

Lost,"  signed  by  John  Milton.  Here  was  a  * 'Ham 
let"  given  by  Shakespeare  to  Bacon  with  the  in 
scription,  "Dear  Frank,  don't  you  wish  you  could 
have  written  something  like  this?"  Here  was  the 
unpublished  manuscript  of  a  story  by  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson.  Here  was  a  note  written  by  Doctor 
Johnson  to  the  landlord  of  the  Cheshire  Cheese, 
refusing  to  pay  a  bill  and  accusing  the  tavern-keeper 
of  profiteering.  Here  were  volumes  autographed  by 
Goldsmith,  Keats,  Shelley,  Poe,  Byron,  DeFoe,  Swift, 
Dickens,  Thackeray,  and  all  the  other  great  figures 
of  modern  literature. 

Poor  George's  agitation  became  painful.  His 
head  buzzed  as  he  surveyed  the  faded  signatures  of 
all  these  men  who  had  become  the  living  figures  of 
his  day-dreams.  His  eye  rolled  wildly  in  its  orbit. 
Just  then  Mr.  Girth  was  called  out  of  the  room,  and 
left  George  alone  among  the  treasures. 

Just  at  what  instant  the  mania  seized  him  we 
shall  never  know.  There  were  a  pen  and  an  inkpot 
on  the  table,  and  the  frenzied  lover  of  books  dipped 
the  quill  deep  in  the  dark  blue  fluid.  He  ran 
eagerly  to  the  shelves.  The  first  volume  he  saw  was 
a  copy  of  "Lorna  Doone."  In  it  he  wrote  "Affec 
tionately  yours,  R.  D.  Blackmore."  Then  came 
Longfellow's  poems.  He  scrawled  "With  deep 
esteem,  Henry  W.  Longfellow"  on  the  flyleaf. 
Then  three  volumes  of  Macaulay's  "History  of 
England."  In  the  first  he  jotted  "I  have  always 
[64] 


Downfall  of  George  Snipe 

wanted  you  to  have  these  admirable  books,  T.  B. 
M."  In  "The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  he  wrote  "This 
comes  to  you  still  warm  from  the  press,  George 
Eliot."  The  next  book  happened  to  be  a  copy  of 
Edgar  Guest's  poems.  In  this  he  inscribed  "You 
are  the  host  I  love  the  best,  This  is  my  boast,  Yours, 
Edgar  Guest."  In  a  copy  of  Browning's  Poems  he 
wrote  "To  my  dear  and  only  wife,  Elizabeth,  from 
her  devoted  Robert."  In  a  pamphlet  reprint  of  the 
Gettysburg  Speech  he  penned  "This  is  straight  stuff, 
A.  Lincoln."  But  perhaps  his  most  triumphant 
exploit  was  signing  a  copy  of  the  Rubaiyat  thus: 
"This  book  is  given  to  the  Anti-Saloon  League  of 
Naishapur  by  that  thorn  in  their  side,  O.  Khayyam." 
By  the  time  the  ambulance  reached  Mr.  Girth's 
home  George  was  completely  beyond  control.  He 
was  taken  away  screaming  because  he  had  not  had  a 
chance  to  autograph  a  copy  of  the  "Songs  of  Solo 
mon." 


[65] 


MEDITATIONS  OF  A  BOOKSELLER 

(Roger  Mifflin  loquitur) 


I  HAD  a  pleasant  adventure  to-day.  A  free  verse 
poet  came  in  to  see  me,  wanted  me  to  buy  some 
copies  of  "The  Pagan  Anthology."  I  looked  over 
the  book,  to  which  he  himself  had  contributed  some 
pieces.  I  advised  him  to  read  Tennyson.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  his  face. 

If  you  want  to  see  a  really  good  anthology  (I  said) 
[66] 


Meditations  of  a  Bookseller 

have  a  look  at  Pearsall  Smith's  "Treasury  of  English 
Prose,"  just  out.  The  only  thing  that  surprises  me 
is  that  Mr.  Smith  didn't  include  some  free  verse  in  it. 
The  best  thing  about  free  verse  is  that  it  is  often  aw 
fully  good  prose. 

It's  a  superb  clear  night:  a  milky  pallor  washed 
in  the  blue:  a  white  moon  overhead:  stars  rare 
but  brilliant,  one  in  the  south  twinkles  and  flutters 
like  a  tiny  flower  stirred  by  faint  air.  The  wind  is 
"a  cordial  of  incredible  virtue"  (Emerson) — sharp 
and  chill,  but  with  a  milder  tincture.  To-day, 
though  brisk  and  snell  on  the  streets,  the  sunshine 
had  a  lively  vigour,  a  generous  quality,  a  promissory 
note  of  the  equinox.  I  felt  it  from  first  rising  this 
morning — the  old  demiurge  at  work !  As  I  sat  in  the 
bathtub  (when  a  man  is  fifty  he  may  be  pardoned  for 
taking  a  warm  bath  on  winter  mornings)  my  mind 
fell  upon  the  desire  of  wandering:  it  occurred  to  me 
that  a  spread  of  legs  in  the  vital  air  would  be  richly 
repaid.  The  windows  called  me:  as  soon  as  shirt 
and  trousers  were  on,  I  was  at  the  sill  peering  out 
over  Gissing  Street.  Later,  even  through  closed 
panes,  the  chink  of  milk  bottles  on  the  pavement 
below  seemed  to  rise  with  a  clearer,  merrier  note. 
Setting  out  for  some  tobacco  about  8 :30, 1  stopped  to 
study  the  ice-man's  great  blocks  of  silvery  translu- 
cence,  lying  along  the  curb  by  a  big  apartment  house. 
"Artificial"  ice,  I  suppose:  it  was  interesting  to 
see,  in  the  meridian  of  each  cake,  a  kind  of  silvery 

[67] 


Pipefuls 

fracture  or  membrane,  with  the  grain  of  air-bubbles 
tending  outward  therefrom — showing,  no  doubt,  if 
one  knew  the  mechanics  of  refrigeration,  just  how 
the  freezing  proceeded.  Even  in  so  humble  a  thing 
as  a  block  of  ice  are  these  harmonic  and  lovely 
patterns,  the  seal  of  Nature's  craft,  inscrutable, 
inimitable.  I  might  have  made  a  point  of  this  in 
talking  to  that  free  verse  poet.  I'm  glad  I  didn't, 
however:  he  would  have  had  some  tedious  reply, 
convincing  to  himself.  That's  the  trouble  with 
replies:  they  are  always  convincing  to  the  replier. 
As  a  friend  of  mine  used  to  say,  one  good  taciturn 
deserves  another. 

I  was  thinking,  as  I  took  a  parcel  of  laundry  up  to 
the  Chinaman  on  McFee  Street  just  now,  it  would 
be  interesting  to  write  a  book  dealing  solely,  candidly, 
exactly,  and  fully  with  the  events,  emotions,  and 
thoughts  of  just  one  day  in  a  man's  life.  If  one 
could  do  that,  in  a  way  to  carry  conviction,  assent, 
and  reality,  to  convey  to  the  reader's  senses  a 
recognition  of  genuine  actual  human  being,  one 
might  claim  to  be  a  true  artist. 

I  have  found  an  admirable  book  for  reading  in 
bed — this  little  anthology  of  prose,  collected  by 
Pearsall  Smith.  He  knows  what  good  prose  is, 
having  written  some  of  the  daintiest  bits  of  our  time 
in  his  "Trivia,"  a  book  with  which  I  occasionally 
delight  a  truly  discerning  customer.  What  a 
fascination  there  is  in  good  prose — "the  cool  element 
[68] 


Meditations  of  a  Bookseller 

of  prose"  as  Milton  calls  it — a  sort  of  fluid  happiness 
of  the  mind,  unshaken  by  the  violent  pangs  of  great 
poetry.  I  am  not  subtle  enough  to  describe  it,  but 
in  the  steadily  cumulating  satisfaction  of  first-class 
prose  there  seems  to  be  something  that  speaks  direct 
to  the  brain,  unmarred  by  the  claims  of  the  senses, 
the  emotions.  I  meditate  much,  ignorantly  and 
fumblingly,  on  the  modes  and  purposes  of  writing. 
It  is  so  simple — "Fool!"  said  my  Muse  to  me  "look  in 
thy  heart  and  write!" — all  that  is  needful  is  to  tell 
what  happens;  and  yet  how  hard  it  is  to  summon  up 
that  necessary  candor.  Every  time  I  read  great 
work  I  see  the  confirmation  of  what  I  grope  for. 
How  vivid,  straight,  and  cleanly  it  seems  when  done : 
merely  the  outward  utterance  of  "what  the  mind  at 
home,  in  the  spacious  circuits  of  her  musing,  hath 
liberty  to  propose  to  herself."  Let  a  man's  mind 
depart  from  his  audience;  let  him  have  no  concern 
whether  to  shock  or  to  please.  Let  him  carry  no 
consideration  save  to  utter,  with  unsparing  fidelity, 
what  passes  in  his  own  spirit.  One  can  trust  the 
brain  to  do  its  part.  All  that  is  needed  is  honour 
able  frankness:  not  to  be  ashamed  to  open  our 
hearts,  to  speak  our  privy  weakness,  our  inward 
exulting.  Then  the  pain  and  perplexity,  or  the 
childish  satisfactions,  of  our  daily  life  are  the  true 
material  of  the  writer's  art,  and  that  which  is  sown 
in  weakness  may  be  raised  in  power.  Curious  indeed 
that  in  this  life,  brief  and  precariously  enjoyed,  men 

[691 


Pipefuls 

should  so  set  their  hearts  on  building  a  permanence 
in  words:  something  to  stand,  in  the  lovely  stability 
of  ink  and  leaden  types,  as  our  speech  out  of  silence 
to  those  who  follow  on.  Indefensible  absurdity,  and 
yet  the  secret  and  impassioned  dream  of  those  who 
write ! 

I  was  about  to  say  that,  for  the  writing  of  anything 
truly  durable,  the  first  requisite  is  plenty  of  silence. 
Then  I  recall  Dr.  Johnson's  preface  to  his  Dic 
tionary — "written  not  in  the  soft  obscurities  of 
retirement,  or  under  the  shelter  of  academic  bowers, 
but  amid  inconvenience  and  distraction,  in  sickness 
and  in  sorrow," 


[70] 


IF  BUYING  A  MEAL  WERE  LIKE  BUY 
ING  A  HOUSE 

Snbenttire 

between  A.  B.,  an  innkeeper,  organized  and  existing 
under  the  laws  of  good  cooking,  party  of  the  first 
part,  and  C.  D.,  party  of  the  second  part,  witnesseth: 


>  for  and  in 

consideration  of  the  sum  of  $1.50,  lawful 
money  of  the  United  States,  paid  by  the  said  party 
of  the  second  part,  does  hereby  grant  and  release 
unto  the  said  C.  D.,  and  his  heirs,  administrators, 
and  assigns  forever, 

that  certain  group,  parcels,  or  allotments  of 
food,  viands,  or  victuals,  situate  or  to  be 
spread,  served,  and  garnished  upon  the  premises  of 
said  A.  B.,  shown  and  known  and  commonly  de 
signed  as  one  square  meal,  table  d'hote,  together 
with  the  drinking  water,  napkin,  ash  tray,  finger- 
bowl  and  hat-and-coat-hanging  privileges  or  ease 
ments  appurtenant  thereto, 


[71] 


Pipefuls 

opportunities  (as  an  easement  additionally  appur 
tenant  to  the  meal  above  nominated)  to  partake,  eat, 
enjoy,  and  be  nourished  upon  said  victuals,  and  to 
call  for  extra  pats,  parcels,  or  portions  of  butter. 


restrictions,  to  wit: 
That  neither  the  party  of  the  second 
part,  nor  his  heirs,  executors,  or  assigns,  will  feast 
immoderately  upon  onions,  to  the  confusion  of  his 
neighbours;  nor  will  the  said  C.  D.  or  his  guests 
smoke  any  form  of  tobacco  other  than  cigars 
and  cigarettes,  the  instrument  commonly  known 
as  a  pipe  being  offensive  to  the  head  waiter 
(a  man  of  delicate  nurture)  ;  nor  will  said  party  of  the 
second  part  covet,  retain,  nor  seek  to  remove  any 
knives,  forks,  spoons,  or  other  tableware  whatsoever; 
nor  is  anything  said  or  implied  or  otherwise  inti 
mated  in  this  covenant  to  be  construed  as  permitting 
the  party  of  the  second  part  to  carry  on  loud 
laughter,  song,  carnival,  nor  social  uproar;  nor  un 
necessarily,  further  than  is  tactful  for  the  procure 
ment  of  expeditious  attention,  to  endear  himself  to 
or  otherwise  cajole,  compliment,  and  ingratiate  the 
waitress. 


&nb  Jf  urtfjermore, 


that  title  to  said 
Meal    does   not 
pass  until  the  party  of  the  second  part  has  conveyed, 
of  his  mansuetude  and  proper  charity,  a  gratuity,  fee, 
[72] 


Buying  a  Meal 

honorarium,  lagniappe,  pourboire,  easement  or  tip 
of  not  less  than  15  per  cent,  of  the  price  of  said 
Meal;  which  easement,  while  customarily  spoken  of 
as  a  free-will  grant  or  gratuity,  is  to  be  constructively 
regarded  as  an  entail  and  a  necessary  encumbrance 
upon  said  Meal. 


covenants 
with  tne  said  party  of  the  second  part  as 

follows:  Thatvthe  said  C.  D.  is  seized  of  the  said 
Meal  in  fee  simple,  and  shall  quietly  enjoy  said  Meal 
subject  to  the  covenants  and  restrictions  and 
encumbrances  hereinbefore  set  out,  subject  to  the 
good  pleasure  of  the  Head  Waiter. 


3Jn 

(IOC.  SIG.) 


[73] 


ADVENTURES  IN  HIGH  FINANCE 


T  I  ^HERE  is  no  way  in  which  one  can  so  surely 
A  arouse  the  suspicions  of  bankers  as  by  trying  to 
put  some  money  in  their  hands.  We  went  round  to 
a  near-by  bank  hoping  to  open  an  account.  As  we 
had  formerly  dealt  with  an  uptown  branch  of  the 
same  institution,  and  as  the  cheque  we  wanted  to 
deposit  bore  the  name  of  a  quite  well-known  firm, 
we  thought  all  would  be  easy.  But  no;  it  seemed 
that  there  was  no  convincing  way  to  identify  our- 
self .  Hopefully  we  pulled  out  a  stack  of  letters,  but 
[74] 


Adventures  in  High  Finance 

these  were  waved  aside.  We  began  to  feel  more  and 
more  as  though  we  had  come  with  some  sinister  in 
tent.  We  started  to  light  our  pipe,  and  then  it  oc 
curred  to  us  that  perhaps  that  would  be  regarded  as 
the  gesture  of  a  hardened  cracksman,  seeking  to 
appear  at  his  ease.  We  wondered  if,  in  all  our 
motions,  we  were  betraying  the  suspicious  conduct 
of  the  professional  embezzler.  Perhaps  the  courteous 
banker  was  putting  us  through  some  Freudian 
third  degree  ...  in  these  days  when  the 
workings  of  the  unconscious  are  so  shrewdly  can 
vassed,  was  there  anything  abominable  in  the  cellar 
of  our  soul  which  we  were  giving  away  without 
realizing  .  .  .  had  we  not  thought  to  ourself, 
as  we  entered  the  door,  well,  this  is  a  fairly  decent 
cheque  to  start  an  account  with,  but  we  won't  keep 
our  balance  anywhere  near  that  figure  .  .  .  per 
haps  our  Freudian  banker  had  spotted  that  thought 
and  was  sending  for  a  psychological  patrol  wagon 
.  .  .  well,  how  could  we  identify  ourself?  Did 
we  know  any  one  who  had  an  account  hi  that 
branch?  No. 

We  thought  of  a  friend  of  ours  who  banked  at  an 
other  branch  of  this  bank,  not  far  away.  The 
banker  called  him  up  and  whispered  strangely  over 
the  phone.  We  were  asked  to  take  off  our  hat. 
Apparently  our  friend  was  describing  us.  We 
hoped  that  he  was  saying  "stout"  rather  than  "fat." 
But  it  seemed  that  the  corroboration  of  our  friend 

[75] 


Pipefuls 

only  increased  our  host's  precaution.  Perhaps  he 
thought  it  was  a  carefully  worked-out  con  game, 
in  which  our  friend  was  a  confederate.  We  signed 
our  name  several  times,  on  little  cards,  with  a 
desperate  attempt  to  appear  unconcerned.  In  spite 
of  our  best  efforts,  we  could  not  help  thinking  that 
each  time  we  wrote  it  we  must  be  looking  as  though 
we  were  trying  to  remember  how  we  had  written  it 
the  last  time.  Still  the  banker  hesitated.  Then  he 
called  up  our  friend  again.  He  asked  him  if  he 
would  know  our  voice  over  the  phone.  Our  friend 
said  he  would.  We  spoke  to  our  friend,  with  whom 
we  had  eaten  lunch  a  few  minutes  before.  He 
asked,  to  identify  us,  what  we  had  had  for  lunch. 
Horrible  instant!  For  a  moment  we  could  not  re 
member.  The  eyes  of  the  banker  and  his  assistant 
were  glittering  upon  us.  Then  we  spoke  glibly 
enough.  "An  oyster  patty,"  we  said;  "two  cups  of 
tea,  and  a  rice  pudding  which  we  asked  for  cold,  but 
which  was  given  us  hot." 

Our  friend  asserted,  to  the  banker,  that  we  were 
undeniably  us,  and  indeed  the  homely  particularity 
of  the  luncheon  items  had  already  made  incision  in 
his  hardened  bosom.  He  smiled  radiantly  at  us  and 
gave  us  a  cheque  book.  Then  he  told  us  we  couldn't 
draw  against  our  account  until  the  original  cheque 
had  passed  through  the  Clearing  House,  and  sent  a 
youth  back  to  the  office  with  us  so  that  we  could  be 
unmistakably  identified. 
[76] 


Adventures  in  High  Finance 

As  we  left  the  banker's  office  someone  else  was 
ushered  in.  "Here's  another  gentleman  to  open 
an  account,"  said  the  assistant.  "We  hope  he 
knows  what  he  had  for  lunch,"  we  said  to  the 
banker. 


177] 


ON  VISITING  BOOKSHOPS 


IT  IS  a  curious  thing  that  so  many  people  only  go 
into  a  bookshop  when  they  happen  to  need  some 
particular  book.     Do  they  never  drop  in  for  a  little 
innocent  carouse  and  refreshment?     There  are  some 
knightly  souls  who  even  go  so  far  as  to  make  their 
visits  to  bookshops  a  kind  of  chivalrous  errantry  at 
large.    They  go  in  not  because  they  need  any  certain 
volume,  but  because  they  feel  that  there  may  be 
[78] 


On  Visiting  Bookshops 

some  book  that  needs  them.  Some  wistful,  little 
forgotten  sheaf  of  loveliness,  long  pining  away  on 
an  upper  shelf — why  not  ride  up,  fling  her  across  your 
charger  (or  your  charge  account),  and  gallop  away. 
Be  a  little  knightly,  you  booklovers! 

The  lack  of  intelligence  with  which  people  use 
bookshops  is,  one  supposes,  no  more  flagrant  than  the 
lack  of  intelligence  with  which  we  use  all  the  rest  of 
the  machinery  of  civilization.  In  this  age,  and 
particularly  in  this  city,  we  haven't  time  to  be 
intelligent. 

A  queer  thing  about  books,  if  you  open  your 
heart  to  them,  is  the  instant  and  irresistible  way  they 
follow  you  with  their  appeal.  You  know  at  once,  if 
you  are  clairvoyant  in  these  matters  (libre-voyant, 
one  might  say),  when  you  have  met  your  book.  You 
may  dally  and  evade,  you  may  go  on  about  your 
affairs,  but  the  paragraph  of  prose  your  eye  fell 
upon,  or  the  snatch  of  verses,  or  perhaps  only  the 
spirit  and  flavour  of  the  volume,  more  divined  than 
reasonably  noted,  will  follow  you.  A  few  lines 
glimpsed  on  a  page  may  alter  your  whole  trend  of 
thought  for  the  day,  reverse  the  currents  of  the 
mind,  change  the  profile  of  the  city.  The  other 
evening,  on  a  subway  car,  we  were  reading  Walter  de 
la  Mare's  interesting  little  essay  about  Rupert 
Brooke.  His  discussion  of  children,  their  dreaming 
ways,  their  exalted  simplicity  and  absorption, 
changed  the  whole  tenor  of  our  voyage  by  some 

(79] 


Pipefuls 

magical  chemistry  of  thought.  It  was  no  longer  a 
wild,  barbaric  struggle  with  our  fellowmen,  but  a 
venture  of  faith  and  recompense,  taking  us  home  to 
the  bedtime  of  a  child. 

The  moment  when  one  meets  a  book  and  knows, 
beyond  shadow  of  doubt,  that  that  book  must  be 
his — not  necessarily  now,  but  some  time — is  among 
the  happiest  excitements  of  the  spirit.  An  in 
describable  virtue  effuses  from  some  books.  One 
can  feel  the  radiations  of  an  honest  book  long  before 
one  sees  it,  if  one  has  a  sensitive  pulse  for  such 
affairs.  Its  honour  and  truth  will  speak  through 
the  advertising.  Its  mind  and  heart  will  cry 
out  even  underneath  the  extravagance  of  jacket- 
blurbings.  Some  shrewd  soul,  who  understands 
books,  remarked  some  time  ago  on  the  editorial 
page  of  the  Sun's  book  review  that  no  superlative  on 
a  jacket  had  ever  done  the  book  an  atom  of  good. 
He  was  right,  as  far  as  the  true  bookster  is  concerned. 
We  choose  our  dinner  not  by  the  wrappers,  but  by 
the  veining  and  gristle  of  the  meat  within.  The 
other  day,  prowling  about  a  bookshop,  we  came  upon 
two  paper-bound  copies  of  a  little  book  of  poems  by 
Alice  Meynell.  They  had  been  there  for  at  least 
two  years.  We  had  seen  them  before,  a  year  or  more 
ago,  but  had  not  looked  into  them  fearing  to  be 
tempted.  This  time  we  ventured.  We  came  upon 
two  poems— "To  O,  Of  Her  Dark  Eyes,"  and  "A 
Wind  of  Clear  Weather  in  England."  The  book 
[80] 


On  Visiting  Bookshops 

was  ours — or  rather,  we  were  its,  though  we  did  not 
yield  at  once.  We  came  back  the  next  day  and  got 
it.  We  are  still  wondering  how  a  book  like  that 
could  stay  in  the  shop  so  long.  Once  we  had  it,  the 
day  was  different.  The  sky  was  sluiced  with  a 
clearer  blue,  air  and  sunlight  blended  for  a  keener 
intake  of  the  lungs,  faces  seen  along  the  street  moved 
us  with  a  livelier  shock  of  interest  and  surprise.  The 
wind  that  moved  over  Sussex  and  blew  Mrs.  Mey- 
nell's  heart  into  her  lines  was  still  flowing  across  the 
ribs  and  ledges  of  our  distant  scene. 

There  is  no  mistaking  a  real  book  when  one  meets 
it.  It  is  like  falling  in  love,  and  like  that  colossal 
adventure  it  is  an  experience  of  great  social  import. 
Even  as  the  tranced  swain,  the  booklover  yearns  to 
tell  others  of  his  bliss.  He  writes  letters  about  it, 
adds  it  to  the  postscript  of  all  manner  of  com 
munications,  intrudes  it  into  telephone  messages, 
and  insists  on  his  friends  writing  down  the  title  of  the 
find.  Like  the  simple-hearted  betrothed,  once 
certain  of  his  conquest,  "I  want  you  to  love  her, 
too!"  It  is  a  jealous  passion  also.  He  feels  a  little 
indignant  if  he  finds  that  any  one  else  has  discovered 
the  book,  too.  He  sees  an  enthusiastic  review — very 
likely  in  The  New  Republic — and  says,  with  great 
scorn,  "I  read  the  book  three  months  ago."  There 
are  even  some  perversions  of  passion  by  which  a 
booklover  loses  much  of  his  affection  for  his  pet  if  he 
sees  it  too  highly  commended  by  some  rival  critic. 

[81] 


Pipefuls 

This  sharp  ecstasy  of  discovering  books  for  one's 
self  is  not  always  widespread.  There  are  many  who, 
for  one  reason  or  another,  prefer  to  have  their  books 
found  out  for  them.  But  for  the  complete  zealot 
nothing  transcends  the  zest  of  pioneering  for  him 
self.  And  therefore  working  for  a  publisher  is,  to  a 
certain  type  of  mind,  a  never-failing  fascination. 
As  H.  M.  Tomlinson  says  in  "Old  Junk,"  that 
fascinating  collection  of  sensitive  and  beautifully 
poised  sketches  which  came  to  us  recently  with  a 
shock  of  thrilling  delight: 

To  come  upon  a  craft  rigged  so,  though  at  her 
moorings  and  with  sails  furled,  her  slender  poles 
upspringing  from  the  bright  plane  of  a  brimming 
harbour,  is  to  me  as  rare  and  sensational  a  delight 
as  the  rediscovery,  when  idling  with  a  book,  of  a 
favourite  lyric. 

To  read  just  that  passage,  and  the  phrase  the 
bright  plane  of  a  brimming  harbour,  is  one  of  those 
"rare  and  sensational  delights"  that  set  the  mind 
moving  on  lovely  journeys  of  its  own,  and  mark  off 
visits  to  a  bookshop  not  as  casual  errands  of  reason, 
but  as  necessary  acts  of  devotion.  We  visit  book 
shops  not  so  often  to  buy  any  one  special  book,  but 
rather  to  rediscover,  in  the  happier  and  more 
expressive  words  of  others,  our  own  encumbered 
soul. 


[82] 


A  DISCOVERY 


WE  ARE  going  to  tell  the  truth.  It  has  been  on 
our  mind  for  some  time.  We  are  going  to  tell 
it  exactly,  without  any  balancing  or  trimming  or 
crimped  edges.  We  are  weary  of  talking  about 
trivialities  and  are  going  to  come  plump  and  plain 
to  the  adventures  of  our  own  mind.  These  are  real 
adventures,  just  as  real  as  the  things  we  see.  The 
green  frog  that  took  refuge  on  our  porch  last  night 
was  no  more  real.  Perhaps  frogs  don't  care  so  much 
for  wet  as  they  are  supposed  to,  for  when  that 
excellent  thunderstorm  came  along  and  the  ceiling  of 
the  night  was  sheeted  with  lilac  brightness,  through 
which  ran  quivering  threads  of  naked  fire  (not  just 
the  soft,  tame,  flabby  fire  of  the  domestic  hearth,  but 

[83] 


Pipefuls 

the  real  core  and  marrow  of  flame,  its  hungry, 
terrible,  destroying  self),  our  friend  the  frog  came 
hopping  up  on  the  porch  where  we  stood,  apparently 
to  take  shelter.  How  brilliant  was  his  black  and 
silver  eye  when  we  picked  him  up!  His  direct  and 
honourable  regard  somehow  made  us  feel  ashamed, 
we  know  not  why.  And  yet  we  have  plenty  to  be 
ashamed  about — but  how  did  he  know?  He  was 
still  on  the  porch  this  morning.  Equally  real  was 
the  catbird  on  the  hedge  as  we  came  down  toward 
the  station.  She — we  call  her  so,  for  there  was 
unmistakable  ladyhood  in  her  delicately  tailored 
trimness — she  bickered  at  us  in  a  cheerful  way,  on 
top  of  those  bushes  which  were  so  loaded  with  the 
night's  rainfall  that  they  shone  a  blurred  cobweb 
gray  in  the  lifting  light.  Her  eye  was  also  dark  and 
polished  and  lucid,  like  a  bead  of  ink.  It  also  had 
the  same  effect  of  tribulation  on  our  spirit.  Neither 
the  catbird  nor  the  frog,  we  said  to  ourself,  would 
have  tormented  their  souls  trying  to  "invent" 
something  to  write  about.  They  would  have  told 
what  happened  to  them,  and  let  it  go  at  that.  So,  as 
we  walked  along  under  an  arcade  of  maple  trees,  ad 
miring  the  little  green  seed-biplanes  brought  down 
by  the  thrash  of  the  rain — they  look  rather  as  though 
they  would  make  good  coathangers  for  fairies — we 
asked  ourself  why  we  could  not  be  as  straightforward 
as  the  bird  and  the  frog,  and  talk  about  what  was  in 
our  mind. 
[84] 


A  Discovery 

The  most  exciting  thing  that  happened  to  us  when 
we  got  to  New  York  last  February  was  finding  a  book 
in  a  yellow  wrapper.  Its  title  was  "Old  Junk," 
which  appealed  to  us.  The  name  of  the  author  was 
H.  M.  Tomlinson,  which  immediately  became  to  us 
a  name  of  honour  and  great  meaning.  All  days  and 
every  day  intelligent  men  find  themselves  sur 
rounded  by  oceans  of  what  is  quaintly  called  "read 
ing  matter."  Most  of  it  is  turgid,  lumpy,  fuzzy  in 
texture,  squalid  in  intellect.  The  rewards  of  the 
literary  world — that  is,  the  tangible,  potable, 
spendable  rewards — go  mostly  to  the  cheapjack  and 
the  mountebank.  And  yet  here  was  a  man  who  in 
every  paragraph  spoke  to  the  keenest  intellectual 
Sense — who,  ten  times  a  page,  enchanted  the  reader 
with  the  surprising  and  delicious  pang  given  by  the 
critically  chosen  word.  We  sat  up  late  at  night 
reading  that  book,  marvelling  at  our  good  fortune. 
We  wanted  to  cry  aloud  (to  such  as  cared  to  under 
stand),  "Rejoice  and  be  exceeding  glad,  for  here  is 
born  a  man  who  knows  how  to  write!"  In  our 
exuberance  we  seized  a  pen  and  wrote  in  the  stern  of 
our  copy:  "Here  speaks  the  Lord  God  of  prose; 
here  is  the  clear  eye,  the  ironic  mind,  the  compassion 
ate  heart;  the  thrilling  honesty  and  (apparent) 
simplicity  of  great  work."  Then  we  set  about 
making  the  book  known  to  our  friends.  We  pro 
pelled  them  into  bookshops  and  made  them  buy  it. 
We  took  our  own  copy  down  to  William  McFee  on 

[85] 


Pipefuls 

S.  S.  Turrialba  and  a  glad  heart  was  ours  when  he, 
too,  said  it  was  "the  real  thing."  This  is  a  small 
matter,  you  say?  When  the  discovery  of  an  honest 
pen  becomes  a  small  matter  life  will  lose  something  of 
its  savour.  Those  who  understand  will  understand; 
let  the  others  spend  their  time  in  the  smoker  playing 
pinochle.  Those  who  care  about  these  things  can 
get  the  book  for  themselves. 

Of  Mr.  Tomlinson  in  person:  he  is  a  London  news 
paperman,  we  understand,  and  now  on  the  staff  of 
the  London  Nation.  (Trust  Mr.  Massingham,  the 
editor  of  that  journal,  to  know  an  honest  writer 
when  he  sees  him.)  Mr.  Tomlinson  says  of  him 
self: 

My  life  is  like  my  portrait.  It  won't  bear  in 
vestigation.  I  am  not  conscious  of  having  done 
anything  that  would  interest  either  a  policeman  or 
the  young  lady  of  the  kind  who  dotes  on  Daddy 
Long  Legs;  worse  luck.  It's  about  time  I  got  down 
to  business  and  did  something  interesting  either  to 
one  or  the  other.  That  is  why  it  won't  bear  in 
vestigation,  this  record  of  mine.  I  am  about  as 
entertaining  as  one  of  the  crowd  coming  out  of  the 
factory  gates  with  his  full  dinner  pail.  All  my 
adventures  have  been  no  more  than  keeping  that 
pail  moderately  full.  I've  been  doing  that  since  I 
was  twelve,  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  I  was  an  office  boy 
and  a  clerk  among  London's  ships,  in  the  last  days 
of  the  clippers.  And  I  am  forced  to  recall  some  of 
the  things — such  as  bookkeeping  in  a  jam  factory 
and  stoking  on  a  tramp  steamer — I  can  understand 

[86] 


A  Discovery 

why  I  and  my  fellows,  without  wanting  to,  drifted 
about  in  indecision  till  we  drifted  into  war  and 
drifted  into  peace.  And  of  course,  I've  been  a 
journalist.  I  am  still;  and  so  have  seen  much  of 
Africa,  America,  and  Europe,  without  knowing 
exactly  why.  I  was  in  France  in  1914 — the  August, 
too,  of  that  year,  and  woke  up  from  that  nightmare 
in  1917,  after  the  Vimy  Ridge  attack,  when  I  re 
turned  to  England  to  sit  with  my  wife  and  children 
in  a  cellar  whenever  it  was  a  fine  night  and  listened 
to  the  guns  and  bombs.  God,  who  knows  all,  might 
make  something  of  this  sort  of  inconsequential 
drift  of  one  day  into  the  next,  but  I  give  it 
up. 

But  now  we  pass  to  the  phase  of  the  matter  that 
puzzles  us.  How  is  it  that  there  are  some  books 
which  can  never  have  abiding  life  until  they  perish 
and  are  born  again?  We  have  noticed  it  so  often. 
There  is  a  book  of  a  certain  sort  to  which  this 
process  seems  inevitable.  One  need  only  mention 
Leonard  Merrick  or  Samuel  Butler  as  examples. 
The  book,  we  will  suppose,  has  some  peculiar 
subtlety  or  flavour  of  appeal.  (We  are  thinking  at 
the  moment  of  William  McFee's  "Letters  From  an 
Ocean  Tramp.")  It  is  published  and  falls  dead. 
Later  on — usually  about  ten  years  later — it  is  taken 
up  with  vigour  by  some  other  publisher,  the  stone  is 
rolled  away  from  the  sepulchre,  and  it  begins  to  move 
among  its  destined  lovers. 

This  remark  is  caused  by  our  delighted  discovery 

[87] 


Pipefuls 

of  a  previous  book  by  the  author  of  "Old  Junk." 
"The  Sea  and  the  Jungle"  is  the  title  of  it,  the  tale 
of  a  voyage  on  the  tramp  steamer  Capella,  from 
Swansea  to  Para  in  the  Brazils,  and  thence  2,000 
miles  along  the  forests  of  the  Amazon  and  Madeira 
rivers.  It  is  the  kind  of  book  whose  readers  will 
never  forget  it;  the  kind  of  book  that  happens  to 
some  happy  writers  once  in  a  lifetime  (and  to  many 
never  at  all)  when  the  moving  hand  seems  gloriously 
in  gear  with  the  tremulous  and  busy  mind,  and  all 
the  spinning  earth  stands  hearkeningly  still  waiting 
for  the  perfect  expression  of  the  thought.  It  is  the 
work  of  a  hand  trained  in  laborious  task-work  and 
then  set  magnificently  free,  for  a  few  blessed  months, 
under  no  burden  save  that  of  putting  its  captaining 
spirit  truthfully  on  paper.  And  this  book — in 
which  there  is  a  sea  passage  that  not  even  Mr.  Con 
rad  has  ever  bettered — this  book,  which  makes  the 
utmost  self-satisfied  heroics  of  the  Prominent 
Writers  of  our  market  place  shrivel  uncomfortably 
in  remembrance — this  book,  we  repeat,  though 
published  in  this  country  in  1913,  has  been  long  out 
of  print;  and  the  copy  which  we  were  lucky  enough 
to  lay  hand  on  through  the  courtesy  of  the  State 
Librarian  of  Pennsylvania  had  not  previously  been 
borrowed  since  November  18,  1913.  Someone  asks 
us  if  this  man  can  really  write.  Let  us  choose  a 
paragraph  for  example.  This  deals  with  the  first 
day  at  sea  of  the  tramp  steamer  Capella: 
[88] 


A  Discovery 

It  was  December,  but  by  luck  we  found  a  halcyon 
morning  which  had  got  lost  in  the  year's  procession. 
It  was  a  Sunday  morning,  and  it  had  not  been 
ashore.  It  was  still  virgin,  bearing  a  vestal  light. 
It  had  not  been  soiled  yet  by  any  suspicion  of  this 
trampled  planet,  this  muddy  star,  which  its  innocent 
and  tenuous  rays  had  discovered  in  the  region  of 
night.  I  thought  it  still  was  regarding  us  as  a 
lucky  find  there.  Its  light  was  tremulous,  as  if  with 
joy  and  eagerness.  I  met  this  discovering  morning 
as  your  ambassador  while  you  still  slept,  and  be 
trayed  not,  I  hope,  any  grayness  and  bleared  satiety 
of  ours  to  its  pure,  frail,  and  lucid  regard.  That  was 
the  last  good  service  I  did  before  leaving  you  quite. 
I  was  glad  to  see  how  well  your  old  earth  did  meet 
such  a  light,  as  though  it  had  no  difficulty  in  looking 
day  in  the  face.  The  world  was  miraculously 
renewed.  It  rose,  and  received  the  newborn  of 
Aurora  in  its  arms.  There  were  clouds  of  pearl 
above  hills  of  chrysoprase.  The  sea  ran  in  volatile 
flames.  The  shadows  on  the  bright  deck  shot  to  and 
fro  as  we  rolled.  The  breakfast  bell  rang  not  too 
soon.  This  was  a  right  beginning. 

The  above  is  a  paragraph  that  we  have  chosen 
from  Mr.  Tomlinson's  book  almost  at  random.  We 
could  spend  the  whole  afternoon  (and  a  happy  after 
noon  it  would  be  for  us)  copying  out  for  you  passages 
from  "The  Sea  and  the  Jungle"  that  would  give  you 
the  extremity  of  pleasure,  O  high-spirited  reader! 
It  is  an  odd  thing,  it  is  a  quaint  thing,  it  is  a  thing 
that  would  seem  inconceivable  (were  we  not  toler 
ably  acquaint  with  the  vagaries  of  the  reading 

[89] 


Pipefuls 

public)  that  a  book  of  this  sort  should  lie  perdu  on 
the  shelves  of  a  few  libraries.  Yet  one  must  not 
leap  too  heartily  to  the  wrong  conclusion.  The 
reading  public  is  avid  of  good  books,  but  it  does  not 
hear  about  them.  Now  we  would  venture  to  say 
that  we  know  fifty  people — nay,  two  hundred  and 
fifty — who  would  never  have  done  thanking  us  if  we 
could  lay  a  copy  of  a  book  of  this  sort  in  their  hand. 
They  would  think  it  the  greatest  favour  we  could  do 
them  if  we  could  tell  them  where  they  could  go  and 
lay  down  honest  money  and  buy  it.  And  we  have  to 
retort  that  it  is  out  of  print,  not  procurable.*  Is  it  the 
fault  of  publishers?  We  do  not  think  so — or  not 
very  often.  For  every  publisher  has  experience  of 
this  sort  of  thing — books  that  he  knows  to  be  of 
extraordinary  quality  and  fascination  which  simply 
lie  like  lead  in  his  stockroom,  and  people  will  not 
listen  to  what  he  says  about  them.  Whose  fault 
is  it,  then?  Heaven  knows. 

*Since  this  was  written,  a  new  edition  has  been  published  by  E.  P. 
Dutton  &  Co. 


[90] 


SILAS  ORRIN  HOWES 

THERE  died  in  New  York,  on  February  11, 
1918,  one  who  perhaps  as  worthily  as  any  man 
in  any  age  represented  the  peculiar  traits  and 
charms  of  the  book-lover,  a  man  whose  personal  love 
liness  was  only  equalled  by  his  unassuming  modesty, 
a  man  who  was  an  honour  to  the  fine  old  profession  of 
bookselling. 

There  will  be  some  who  frequent  Brentano's 
bookstore  in  New  York  who  will  long  remember  the 
quiet  little  gentleman  who  held  the  .post  nearest  the 
front  door,  whose  face  lit  with  such  a  gentle  and 
gracious  smile  when  he  saw  a  friend  approach,  who 
endured  with  patience  and  courtesy  the  thousand 
small  annoyances  that  every  salesman  knows. 
There  were  encounters  with  the  bourgeois  customer, 
there  were  the  exhausting  fatigues  of  the  rush 
season,  there  were  the  day-long  calls  on  the  slender 
and  none  too  robust  frame.  But  through  it  all  he 
kept  the  perfect  and  unassuming  grace  of  the  high 
born  gentleman  he  was.  An  old-fashioned  courtesy 
and  gallantry  moved  in  his  blood. 

It  was  an  honour  to  know  Silas  Orrin  Howes,  and 
some  have  been  fortunate  to  have  disclosed  to  them 

[91] 


Pipefuls 

Lhe  richness  and  simple  bravery  of  that  lover  of 
truth  and  beauty.  The  present  writer  was  one  of 
the  least  and  latest  of  these.  Twice,  during  the 
last  months  of  his  life,  it  was  my  very  good  fortune  to 
spend  an  evening  with  him  at  his  room  on  Lexington 
Avenue,  to  drink  the  delicious  coffee  he  brewed  in  his 
percolator  given  him  by  William  Marion  Reedy,  to 
mull  with  him  over  the  remarkable  scrap-books  he 
had  compiled  out  of  the  richness  of  his  varied  read 
ing,  and  to  hear  him  talk  about  books  and  life. 

Silas  Orrin  Howes  was  born  in  Macon,  Georgia, 
October  15,  1867.  He  attended  school  in  Macon 
and  Atlanta,  and  then  in  Franklin,  Indiana.  He 
never  went  to  college. 

When  he  was  born,  a  passion  for  books  was  born 
with  him.  His  niece  tells  me  that  by  the  time  he 
was  twenty-one  he  had  collected  a  considerable 
library.  He  began  life  as  a  newspaper  man,  on  the 
Macon  Telegraph.  About  the  age  of  twenty-four  he 
went  to  Galveston  where  he  was  first  a  copy-reader, 
and  then  for  seven  years  telegraph  editor  of  the 
Galveston  News. 

I  do  not  know  all  the  details  of  his  life  in  Galves 
ton,  where  he  lived  for  about  twenty  years.  He  told 
me  that  at  the  time  of  the  disastrous  storm  and 
flood  he  was  working  in  a  drug  store  near  the  Gulf 
front.  He  gave  me  a  thrilling  description  of  the 
night  he  spent  standing  on  the  prescription  counter 
with  the  water  swirling  about  his  waist.  He  slept 
[92] 


Silas  Orrin  Howes 

in  a  little  room  at  the  back  of  the  store,  where  he  had 
a  shelf  of  books  which  were  particularly  dear  to  him. 
Among  them  was  a  volume  of  Henley's  poems.  When 
the  flood  subsided  all  the  books  were  gone,  but  the 
next  day  as  he  was  looking  over  the  wreckage  of 
neighbouring  houses  he  found  his  Henley  washed 
up  on  a  doorstep — covered  with  slime  and  filth  but 
still  intact.  He  sent  it  to  Brentano's  in  New  York 
to  be  rebound  in  vellum,  instructing  them  not  to 
clean  it  in  any  way.  He  wrote  to  Henley  about  the 
incident,  who  sent  him  a  very  friendly  autographed 
",ard  which  he  pasted  in  the  volume.  That  was  one 
of  the  books  which  he  held  most  dear,  and  rightly. 

I  do  not  know  just  when  he  came  to  New  York; 
about  1910,  I  believe.  He  took  a  position  as  sales 
man  at  Brentano's.  After  a  couple  of  years  there  he 
became  anxious  to  try  the  book  business  on  his  own 
account.  He  and  his  nephew  opened  a  shop  in  San 
Antonio.  Neither  of  them  had  much  real  business 
experience.  Certainly  Howes  himself  was  far  too  de 
voted  a  book-lover  to  be  a  good  business  man !  After 
a  few  months  the  venture  ended  in  failure,  and  all 
the  personal  library  which  he  had  collected  through 
patient  years  was  swallowed  up  in  the  disaster. 
After  this  he  returned  to  Brentano's,  where  he  re 
mained  until  his  death.  About  a  year  before  his 
death  he  was  run  over  by  a  taxicab,  which  shook  his 
nerves  a  great  deal. 

At  some  time  during  his  career  he  came  into 

[93] 


Pipefuls 

intimate  friendly  contact  with  Ambrose  Bierce,  and 
used  to  tell  many  entertaining  anecdotes  about  that 
erratic  venturer  in  letters.  He  edited  one  of 
Bierce's  volumes,  adding  a  pleasant  and  scholarly 
little  introduction.  He  was  an  occasional  contributor 
to  Reedy' s  Mirror,  where  he  enjoyed  indulging  in  his 
original  vein  of  satire  and  shrewd  comment.  He 
was  a  great  lover  of  quaint  and  exotic  restaurants, 
and  was  particularly  fond  of  the  Turkish  cafe,  the 
Constantinople,  just  off  Madison  Square.  It  was  a 
treat  to  go  there  with  him,  see  him  summon  the 
waiter  by  clapping  his  hands  (in  the  eastern  fashion), 
and  enjoy  the  strangely  compounded  dishes  of  that 
queer  menu.  He  had  sampled  every  Bulgar, 
Turkish,  Balkan,  French,  and  Scandinavian  restau 
rant  on  Lexington  Avenue.  His  taste  in  unusual  and 
savoury  dishes  was  as  characteristic  as  his  love  for 
the  finer  flavours  of  literature.  I  remember  last 
November  I  elicited  from  him  that  he  had  never 
tasted  gooseberry  jam,  and  had  a  jolly  time  hunting 
for  a  jar,  which  I  found  at  last  at  Park  and  Tilford's, 
although  the  sales-girl  protested  there  was  no  such 
thing.  I  took  it  to  him  and  made  him  promise  to 
eat  it  at  his  breakfasts. 

He  had  the  true  passions  of  the  book-lover,  which 
are  not  allotted  to  many.  He  had  read  hungrily, 
enjoying  chiefly  those  magical  draughts  of  prose 
which  linger  in  the  mind:  Bacon,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  Pater,  Thoreau,  Conrad.  He  was  much  of 
[94] 


Silas  Orrin  Howes 

a  recluse,  a  little  saddened  and  sharpened  perhaps 
by  some  of  his  experiences;  and  he  loved,  above  all, 
those  writers  who  can  present  truth  with  a  faint  tang 
of  acid  flavour,  the  gooseberry  jam  of  literature  as  it 
were.  One  of  my  last  satisfactions  was  to  convert 
him  (in  some  measure)  to  an  enthusiasm  for  Pearsall 
Smith's  "Trivia." 

As  one  looks  back  at  that  quiet,  honourable  life, 
one  is  aware  of  a  high,  noble  spirit  shining  through 
it:  a  spirit  that  sought  but  little  for  itself,  welcomed 
love  and  comradeship  that  came  its  way,  and  was 
content  with  a  modest  round  of  routine  duty  because 
it  afforded  inner  contact  with  what  was  beautiful  and 
true.  One  remembers  an  innate  gentleness,  and  a 
loyalty  to  a  high  and  chivalrous  ideal. 

Such  a  life  might  be  a  lesson,  if  anything  could,  to 
the  bumptious  and  "efficient"  and  smug.  Time 
after  time  I  have  watched  him  serving  some  furred 
and  jewelled  customer  who  was  not  fit  to  exchange 
words  with  him;  I  have  seen  him  jostled  in  a  crowded 
aisle  by  some  parvenu  ignoramus  who  knew  not 
that  this  quiet  little  man  was  one  of  the  immortal 
spirits  of  gentleness  and  breeding  who  associate  in 
quiet  hours  with  the  unburied  dead  of  English 
letters.  That  corner  of  the  store,  near  the  front 
door,  can  never  be  the  same. 

Such  a  life  could  only  fittingly  be  described  by 
the  gentle,  inseeing  pen  of  an  E.  V.  Lucas. 

My  greatest  regret  and  disappointment,  when  I 

[95] 


Pipefuls 

heard  of  his  sudden  death,  was  that  he  would  never 
know  of  a  little  tribute  I  had  paid  him  in  a  forth 
coming  book.  I  had  been  saving  it  as  a  surprise  for 
him,  for  I  knew  it  would  please  him.  And  now  he 
will  never  know. 
February,  1918. 


[96] 


JOYCE  KILMER 


I  WONDER  if  there  is  any  other  country  where  the 
death  of  a  young  poet  is  double-column  front 
page  news? 

And  if  poets  were  able  to  proofread  their  own 
obits,  I  wonder  if  any  two  lines  would  have  given 
Joyce  Kilmer  more  honest  pride  than  these: 

JOYCE  KILMER,  POET, 
IS  KILLED  IN  ACTION 

which  gave  many  hearts  a  pang  when  they  picked 
up  the  newspaper  last  Sunday  morning. 

Joyce  Kilmer  died  as  he  lived — "in  action."  He 
found  life  intensely  amusing,  unspeakably  interest 
ing;  his  energy  was  unlimited,  his  courage  stout.  He 
attacked  life  at  all  points,  rapidly  gathered  its 
complexities  about  him,  and  the  more  intricate  it 

[97] 


Pipefuls 

became  the  more  zestful  he  found  it.  Nothing 
bewildered  him,  nothing  terrified.  By  the  time  he 
was  thirty  he  had  attained  an  almost  unique  position 
in  literary  circles.  He  lectured  on  poetry,  he  inter 
viewed  famous  men  of  letters,  he  was  poet,  editor, 
essayist,  critic,  anthologist.  He  was  endlessly 
active,  full  of  delightful  mirth  and  a  thousand 
schemes  for  outwitting  the  devil  of  necessity  that 
hunts  all  brainworkers.  Nothing  could  quench  him. 
He  was  ready  to  turn  out  a  poem,  an  essay,  a  critical 
article,  a  lecture,  at  a  few  minutes'  notice.  He  had 
been  along  all  the  pavements  of  Grub  Street,  perhaps 
the  most  exciting  place  of  breadwinning  known  to  the 
civilized  man.  From  his  beginning  as  a  sales  clerk 
in  a  New  York  bookstore  (where,  so  the  tale  goes,  by 
misreading  the  price  cipher  he  sold  a  $150  volume  for 
$1.50)  down  to  the  time  when  he  was  run  over  by  an 
Erie  train  and  dictated  his  weekly  article  for  the 
New  York  Times  in  hospital  with  three  broken  ribs, 
no  difficulties  or  perplexities  daunted  him. 

But  beneath  this  whirling  activity  which  amused 
and  amazed  his  friends  there  lay  a  deeper  and  quieter 
vein  which  was  rich  in  its  own  passion.  It  is  not 
becoming  to  prate  of  what  lies  in  other  men's  souls; 
we  all  have  our  secrecies  and  sanctuaries,  rarely 
acknowledged  even  to  ourselves.  But  no  one  can 
read  Joyce  Kilmer's  poems  without  grasping  his 
vigorous  idealism,  his  keen  sense  of  beauty,  his 
devout  and  simple  religion,  his  clutch  on  the 
[98] 


Joyce  Kilmer 

preciousness  of  common  things.  He  loved  the 
precarious  bustle  on  Grub  Street;  he  was  of  that  ad 
venturous,  buoyant  stuff  that  rejects  hum-drum 
security  and  a  pelfed  and  padded  life.  He  always 
insisted  that  America  is  the  very  shrine  and  fountain 
of  poetry,  and  this  country  (which  is  indeed  pathetic 
ally  eager  to  take  poets  to  its  bosom)  stirred  his 
vivid  imagination.  The  romance  of  the  com 
muter's  train  and  the  suburban  street,  of  the  delica 
tessen  shop  and  the  circus  and  the  snowman  in  the 
yard — these  were  the  familiar  themes  where  he  was 
rich  and  felicitous.  Many  a  commuter  will  re 
member  his  beautiful  poem  "The  12:45,"  bespeaking 
the  thrill  we  have  all  felt  in  the  shabby  midnight 
train  that  takes  us  home,  yearning  and  weary,  to 
the  well-beloved  hearth: 

What  love  commands,  the  train  fulfills 

And  beautiful  upon  the  hills 

.Are  these  our  feet  of  burnished  steel. 

Subtly  and  certainly,  I  feel 

That  Glen  Rock  welcomes  us  to  her. 

And  silent  Ridgewood  seems  to  stir 

And  smile,  because  she  knows  the  train 

Has  brought  her  children  back  again. 

We  carry  people  home — and  so 

God  speeds  us,  wheresoe'er  we  go. 

The  midnight  train  is  slow  and  old, 

But  of  it  let  this  thing  be  told, 

To  its  high  honour  be  it  said, 

It  carries  weary  folk  to  bed. 

[99] 


Pipefuls 

To  a  man  such  as  this,  whose  whole  fervent  and 
busy  adventure  was  lit  within  by  the  lamplight  and 
firelight  of  domestic  passion,  the  war,  with  its 
broken  homes  and  defiled  sanctities,  came  as  a 
personal  affront.  Both  to  his  craving  for  the 
glamour  of  such  a  colossal  drama,  and  to  his  sense 
of  what  was  most  worshipful  in  human  life,  the  call 
was  irresistible.  Counsels  of  prudence  and  comfort 
were  as  nothing;  the  heart-shaking  poetry  of  this 
nation's  entry  into  an  utterly  unselfish  war  burned 
away  all  barriers.  His  life  had  been  a  fury  of 
writing,  but  those  who  thought  he  had  entered  the 
war  merely  to  make  journalism  about  it  were  mis 
taken.  Only  a  few  weeks  before  his  death  he  wrote : 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not  interested  in  writing 
nowadays,  except  in  so  far  as  writing  is  the  expression 
of  something  beautiful.  And  I  see  daily  and  nightly 
the  expression  of  beauty  in  action  instead  of  words, 
and  I  find  it  more  satisfactory.  I  am  a  sergeant  in 
the  regimental  intelligence  section — the  most  fasci 
nating  work  possible — more  thrills  in  it  than  in  any 
other  branch,  except,  possibly,  aviation.  Wonder 
ful  life!  But  I  don't  know  what  I'll  be  able  to  do 
in  civilian  life — unless  I  become  a  fireman! 

As  journalist  and  lecturer  Kilmer  was  copious  and 
enthusiastic  rather  than  deep.  He  found — a  good 
deal  to  his  own  secret  mirth — women's  clubs  and 
poetry  societies  sitting  earnestly  at  his  feet,  ex 
pectant  to  hear  ultimate  truth  on  deep  matters. 
1100] 


Joyce  Kilmer 

His  humour  prompted  him  to  give  them  the  ultimate 
truth  they  craved.  If  his  critical  judgments  were 
not  always  heavily  documented  or  long  pondered, 
they  were  entertaining  and  pleasantly  put.  The 
earnest  world  of  literary  societies  and  blue-hosed 
salons  lay  about  his  feet;  he  flashed  in  it  merrily, 
chuckling  inwardly  as  he  found  hundreds  of  worthy 
people  hanging  breathless  on  his  words.  A  kind  of 
Kilmer  cult  grew  apace;  he  had  his  followers  and  his 
devotees.  I  mention  these  things  because  he  would 
have  been  the  first  to  chuckle  over  them.  I  do  not 
think  he  would  want  to  be  remembered  as  having 
taken  all  that  sort  of  thing  too  seriously.  It  was  all 
a  delicious  game — part  of  the  grand  joke  of  living. 
Sometimes,  among  his  friends,  he  would  begin  to 
pontificate  in  his  platform  manner.  Then  he  would 
recall  himself,  and  his  characteristic  grin  would  flood 
his  face. 

As  a  journalist,  I  say,  he  was  copious;  but  as  a 
poet  his  song  was  always  prompted  by  a  genuine 
gush  of  emotion.  "  A  poet  is  only  a  glorified  reporter," 
he  used  to  say;  he  took  as  his  favourite  assignment 
the  happier  precincts  of  the  human  heart.  As  he  said 
of  Belloc,  a  true  poet  will  never  write  to  order — not 
even  to  his  own  order.  He  sang  because  he  heard 
life  singing  all  about  him.  His  three  little  books  of 
poems  have  always  been  dear  to  lovers  of  honest 
simplicity.  And  now  their  words  will  be  lit  hence 
forward  by  an  inner  and  tender  brightness — the 

[101] 


Pipefiils 

memory  of  a  gallant  boy  who  flung  himself  finely 
against  the  walls  of  life.  Where  they  breached  he 
broke  through  and  waved  his  sword  laughing. 
Where  they  hurled  him  back  he  turned  away, 
laughing  still. 

ii 

Kilmer  wrote  from  France,  in  answer  to  an  inquiry 
as  to  his  ideas  about  poetry,  "All  that  poetry  can  be 
expected  to  do  is  to  give  pleasure  of  a  noble  sort  to  its 
readers."  He  might  have  said  "pleasure  or  pain  of 
a  noble  sort." 

It  is  both  pleasure  and  pain,  of  a  very  noble  sort, 
that  the  reader  will  find  in  Robert  Cortes  Holliday's 
memoir,  which  introduces  the  two  volumes  of 
Kilmer's  poems,  essays,  and  letters.  The  ultimate 
and  eloquent  tribute  to  Kilmer's  rich,  brave,  and 
jocund  personality  is  that  it  has  raised  up  so  moving 
a  testament  of  friendship.  Mr.  Holliday's  lively  and 
tender  essay  is  worthy  to  stand  among  the  great 
memorials  of  brotherly  affection  that  have  enriched 
our  speech.  To  say  that  Kilmer  was  not  a  Keats  is 
not  to  say  that  the  friendship  that  irradiates  Mr. 
Holliday's  memoir  was  less  lovely  than  that  of 
Keats  and  Severn,  for  instance.  The  beauty  of  any 
human  intercourse  is  not  measured  by  the  plane  on 
which  it  moves. 

Pleasure  and  pain  of  a  noble  sort  are  woven  in 
every  fibre  of  this  sparkling  casting-up  of  the  blithe 
[102] 


Joyce  Kilmer 

years.  Pleasure  indeed  of  the  fullest,  for  the 
chronicle  abounds  in  the  surcharged  hilarity  and 
affectionate  humour  that  we  have  grown  to  expect 
in  any  matters  connected  with  Joyce  Kilmer.  The 
biographer  dwells  with  loving  and  smiling  particu 
larity  on  the  elvish  phases  of  the  young  knight-errant. 
It  is  by  the  very  likeness  of  his  tender  and  glowing 
portrait  that  we  find  pleasure  overflowing  into  pain — 
into  a  wincing  recognition  of  destiny's  unriddled 
ways  with  men.  This  memory  was  written  out  of  a 
full  heart,  with  the  poignance  that  lies  in  every  back 
ward  human  gaze.  It  is  only  in  the  backward  look 
that  the  landscape's  contours  lie  revealed  in  their 
true  form  and  perspective.  It  is  only  when  we  have 
lost  what  was  most  dear  that  we  know  fully  what  it 
meant.  That  is  Fate's  way  with  us:  it  cannot  be 
amended. 

There  will  be  no  need  for  the  most  querulous 
appraiser  to  find  fault  with  Mr.  Holliday  on  the 
score  of  over-eulogy.  He  does  not  try  to  push 
sound  carpentry  or  ready  wit  into  genius.  Fortune 
and  his  own  impetuous  onslaught  upon  life  cast 
Kilmer  into  the  role  of  hack  journalist:  he  would 
have  claimed  no  other  title.  Yet  he  adorned  Grub 
Street  (that  most  fascinating  of  all  thorny  ways)  with 
gestures  and  music  of  his  own.  Out  of  his  glowing 
and  busy  brain  he  drew  matter  that  was  never  dull, 
never  bitter  or  petty  or  slovenly.  In  the  fervent 
attack  and  counter-attack,  shock  and  counter-shock 

[103] 


Pipefuls 

of  his  strenuous  days  he  never  forgot  his  secret 
loyalty  to  fine  craftsmanship.  He  kept  half  a  dozen 
brightly  coloured  balls  spinning  in  air  at  all  times — 
verses,  essays,  reviews,  lectures,  introductions,  inter 
views,  anthologies,  and  what-not;  yet  each  of  these 
was  deftly  done.  When  he  went  to  France  and  his 
days  of  hack  work  were  over,  when  the  necessities  of 
life  no  longer  threatened  him,  the  journalistic  habit 
fell  away.  It  was  never  more  than  a  garment,  worn 
gracefully,  but  still  only  what  the  tailors  call  a  busi 
ness  suit. 

In  France,  Kilmer  wrote  but  a  handful  of  pieces  in 
tended  for  publication,  but  at  least  one  of  them — the 
prose  sketch  "Holy  Ireland" — showed  his  essential 
fibre.  The  comparative  silence  of  his  pen  when  he 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  war  was  a  true  ex 
pression.  It  bespoke  the  decent  idealism  that  un 
derlay  the  combats  of  a  journalist  wringing  a  living 
out  of  the  tissues  of  a  busy  brain.  The  tender  humour 
and  quaint  austerity  of  his  homeward  letters  exhibit 
the  man  at  his  inmost.  What  could  better  the 
imaginative  genius  of  the  phrase  in  which  he  speaks 
of  friendship  developed  by  common  dangers  and 
hardships  as  "a  fine,  hearty,  roaring,  mirthful  sort  of 
thing,  like  an  open  fire  of  whole  pine  trees  in  a  giant's 
castle?" 

The  memoir  and  Kilmer's  own  letters  admit  us  to 
see  something  of  the  spiritual  phases  of  this  man's 
life,  whose  soul  found  "happiness  and  quiet  kind"  in 
[104] 


Joyce  Kilmer 

the  Roman  Catholic  faith.  The  most  secret 
strengths  and  weaknesses  that  govern  men's  lives  are 
strangely  unknown  to  many  of  their  intimates:  one 
wonders  how  many  of  Kilmer's  associates  on  the 
Times  staff  knew  of  his  habit  of  stopping  daily  at  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Innocents,  near  the  newspaper 
office,  to  pray.  It  was  the  sorrow  of  personal 
affliction  that  brought  Kilmer  to  the  Catholic 
Church.  Shortly  after  being  received  into  that 
communion  he  wrote: 

Just  off  Broadway  on  the  way  from  the  Hudson 
Tube  Station  to  the  Times  Building,  there  is  a 
church  called  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Innocents. 
Since  it  is  in  the  heart  of  the  Tenderloin,  this  name  is 
strangely  appropriate — for  there  surely  is  need  of 
youth  and  innocence.  Well,  every  morning  for 
months  I  stopped  on  my  way  to  the  office  and 
prayed  in  this  church  for  faith.  When  faith  did 
come,  it  came,  I  think,  by  way  of  my  little  paralyzed 
daughter.  Her  lifeless  hands  led  me;  I  think  her 
tiny  feet  still  know  beautiful  paths. 

Mr.  Holliday  does  well  to  point  out  that  Kilmer 
was  almost  unique  in  this  country  as  a  representative 
of  the  Bellocian  School  of  Catholic  journalism,  in 
which  piety  and  mirth  dwell  so  comfortably  together; 
though  he  might  have  mentioned  T.  A.  Daly  as  an 
older  and  subtler  master  of  devout  merriment,  dip 
ping  in  his  own  inkwell  rather  than  in  any  imported 
bottles.  It  is  to  Belloc,  of  course,  and  to  Gilbert 

[105] 


Pipefuls 

Chesterton,  that  one  must  go  to  learn  the  secret  of 
Kilmer's  literary  manner.  Yet,  as  Holliday  affirms, 
the  similarity  is  due  as  much  to  an  affinity  of  mind 
with  these  Englishmen  as  to  any  eagerness  to  imitate. 
Kilmer  was  like  them  in  being  essentially  a 
humorist.  One  glance  at  his  face,  with  its  glowing 
red-brown  eyes  (the  colour  of  port  wine),  and  the 
twitching  in-drawn  corners  of  the  mouth,  gave  the 
observer  an  impression  of  benignant  drollery.  Mr. 
Holliday  well  says:  "People  have  made  very 
creditable  reputations  as  humorists  who  never 
wrote  anything  like  as  humorous  essays  as  those  of 
Joyce  Kilmer.  They  fairly  reek  with  the  joy  of 
life." 

"He  that  lives  by  the  pen  shall  perish  by  the  pen," 
the  biographer  tells  us,  quoting  James  Huneker. 
"For  a  sapling  poet,  within  a  few  short  years  and  by 
the  hard  business  of  words,  to  attain  to  a  secretary 
and  a  butler  and  a  family  of,  at  length,  four  children, 
is  a  modern  Arabian  Nights  Tale."  Aye,  indeed! 
But  Joyce  Kilmer  will  have  as  genuine  a  claim  on 
remembrance  by  reason  of  his  friends'  love  as  in 
anything  his  own  hand  penned.  And  what  an  en 
circling,  almost  paternal,  gentleness  there  is  in  the 
picture  of  the  young  poet  as  a  salesman  at  Scribner's 
bookstore: 

His  smile,  never  far  away,  when  it  came  was 
winning,  .charming.  It  broke  like  spring  sunshine, 
it  was  so  fresh  and  warm  and  clear.  And  there  was 

[106] 


Joyce  Kilmer 

noticeable  then  in  his  eyes  a  light,  a  quiet  glow, 
which  marked  him  as  a  spirit  not  to  be  forgotten. 
So  tenderly  boyish  was  he  in  effect  that  his  confreres 
among  the  book  clerks  accepted  with  difficulty'  the 
story  that  he  was  married.  When  it  was  told  that  he 
had  a  son  they  gasped  their  incredulity.  And  when 
one  day  this  extraordinary  elfin  sprite  remarked  that 
at  the  time  of  his  honeymoon  he  had  had  a  beard 
they  felt  (I  remember)  that  the  world  was  without 
power  to  astonish  them  further. 

And  even  more  striking  is  what  is  implied  in  the 
narrative:  that  when  this  "elfin  sprite,"  this  gently 
nurtured  young  man  of  bookish  pursuits,  took  up  the 
art  of  war,  he  gloried  in  his  association  with  a  rip- 
roaring  regiment  recruited  mainly  from  hard-handed 
fellows  of  the  type  we  may  call  (with  no  atom  of 
disrespect)  roughnecks.  Hardships  and  exertions 
familiar  to  them  were  new  to  him,  but  he  set  himself 
to  win  their  love  and  respect,  and  did  so.  He  was 
not  content  until  he  had  found  his  way  into  the  most 
exhausting  and  hazardous  branch  of  the  whole  job. 
He  said,  again  and  again,  that  he  would  rather  be  a 
sergeant  with  the  69th  than  a  lieutenant  with  any 
other  outfit.  There  was  a  heart  of  heroism  in  the 
"elfin  sprite."  The  same  dashing  insouciance  that 
dictated  the  weekly  article  for  his  paper  when  in 
hospital  with  three  broken  ribs  after  being  run  down 
by  a  train  was  hardened  and  steeled  in  the  sergeant 
who  nightly  tore  his  uniform  into  ribbons  by  crawling 
out  through  the  barbed  wire. 

[107] 


Pipefuls 

Laughter  and  comradeship  and  hearty  meals 
clustered  about  Kilmer:  wherever  he  touched  the 
grindstone  of  life  there  flew  up  a  merry  shower  of 
sparks.  There  is  convincing  testimony  to  the 
courage  and  beauty  that  lay  quiet  at  the  heart  of 
this  singer  who  said  that  the  poet  is  only  a  glorified 
reporter,  and  wished  he  had  written  "Casey  at  the 
Bat." 

Let  us  spare  his  memory  the  glib  and  customary 
dishonesty  that  says  "He  died  as  he  would  have 
wished  to."  No  man  wishes  to  die — at  least,  no 
poet  does.  To  part  with  the  exhilarating  bustle  and 
tumult,  the  blueness  of  the  sky,  the  sunlight  that 
tingles  on  well-known  street  corners,  the  plumber's 
bills  and  the  editor's  checks,  the  mirths  of  fellowship 
and  the  joys  of  homecoming  when  lamps  are  lit — 
all  this  is  too  close  a  fibre  to  be  stripped  easily  from 
the  naked  heart.  But  the  poet  must  go  where  the 
greatest  songs  are  singing.  Perhaps  he  finds,  after 
all,  that  life  and  death  are  part  of  the  same  rhyme. 


[108] 


TALES  OF  TWO  CITIES 

I.   PHILADELPHIA 


AN  EAELY  TRAIN 


THE  course  of  events  has  compelled  me  for 
several  months  to  catch  an  early  train  at  Broad 
Street  three  times  a  week.  I  call  it  an  "early" 
train,  but,  of  course,  these  matters  are  merely 
relative;  7:45  are  the  figures  illuminated  over  the 
gateway — not  so  very  precocious,  perhaps;  but  quite 
rathe  enough  for  one  of  Haroun-al-Raschid  temper, 
who  seldom  seeks  the  "oblivion  of  repose"  (Boswell's 
phrase)  before  1  A.  M. 

Nothing  is  more  pathetic  in  human  nature  than  its 
faculty  of  self-deception.  Winding  up  the  alarm 
clock  (the  night  before)  I  meditate  as  to  the  exact 
time  to  elect  for  its  disturbing  buzz.  If  I  set  it  at 


Pipefuls 

6:30  that  will  give  me  plenty  of  time  to  shave  and 
reach  the  station  with  leisure  for  a  pleasurable  cup  of 
coffee.  But  (so  frail  is  the  human  will)  when  I  wake 
at  6:30  I  will  think  to  myself,  "There  is  plenty  of 
time,"  and  probably  turn  over  for  "another  five 
minutes."  This  will  mean  a  hideous  spasm  of 
awakening  conscience  about  7:10 — an  unbathed  and 
unshaven  tumult  of  preparation,  malisons  on  the 
shoe  manufacturers  who  invented  boots  with  eyelets 
all  the  way  up,  a  frantic  sprint  to  Sixteenth  Street 
and  one  of  those  horrid  intervals  that  shake  the  very 
citadel  of  human  reason  when  I  ponder  whether  it  is 
safer  to  wait  for  a  possible  car  or  must  start  hotfoot 
for  the  station  at  once.  All  this  is  generally  decided 
by  setting  the  clock  for  6 :50.  Then,  if  I  am  spry,  I 
can  be  under  way  by  7:20  and  have  a  little  time  to 
be  philosophical  at  the  corner  of  Sixteenth  and  Pine. 
Of  the  vile  seizures  of  passion  that  shake  the  bosom 
when  a  car  comes  along,  seems  about  to  halt,  and 
then  passes  without  stopping — of  the  spiritual  scars 
these  crises  leave  on  the  soul  of  the  victim,  I  cannot 
trust  myself  to  speak.  It  does  not  always  happen, 
thank  goodness.  One  does  not  always  have  to  throb 
madly  up  Sixteenth,  with  head  retorted  over  one's 
shoulder  to  see  if  a  car  may  still  be  coming,  while  the 
legs  make  what  speed  they  may  on  sliddery  paving. 
Sometimes  the  car  does  actually  appear  and  one 
buffets  aboard  and  is  buried  in  a  brawny  human 
mass.  There  is  a  stop,  and  one  wonders  fiercely 


An  Early  Train 

whether  a  horse  is  down  ahead,  and  one  had  better 
get  out  at  once  and  run  for  it.  Tightly  wedged 
in  the  heart  of  the  car,  nothing  can  be  seen.  It  is  all 
very  nerve-racking,  and  I  study,  for  quietness  of 
mind,  the  familiar  advertising  card  of  the  white- 
bearded  old  man  announcing  "It  is  really  very 
remarkable  that  a  cigar  of  this  quality  can  be  had  for 
seven  cents." 

Suppose,  however,  that  fortune  is  with  me.  I 
descend  at  Market  Street,  and  the  City  Hall  dial, 
shining  softly  in  the  fast  paling  blue  of  morning, 
marks  7:30.  Now  I  begin  to  enjoy  myself.  I 
reflect  on  the  curious  way  in  which  time  seems  to 
stand  still  during  the  last  minutes  before  the  de 
parture  of  a  train.  The  half -hour  between  7  and 
7:30  has  vanished  in  a  gruesome  flash.  Now  follow 
fifteen  minutes  of  exquisite  dalliance.  Every  few 
moments  I  look  suddenly  and  savagely  at  the  clock 
to  see  if  it  can  be  playing  some  saturnine  trick.  No, 
even  now  it  is  only  7:32.  In  the  lively  alertness  of 
the  morning  mind  a  whole  wealth  of  thought  and 
accurate  observation  can  be  crammed  into  a  few 
seconds.  I  halt  for  a  moment  at  the  window  of  that 
little  lunchroom  on  Market  Street  (between  Six 
teenth  and  Fifteenth)  where  the  food  comes  swiftly 
speeding  from  the  kitchen  on  a  moving  belt.  I 
wonder  whether  to  have  breakfast  there.  It  is  such 
fun  to  see  a  platter  of  pale  yellow  scrambled  eggs 
sliding  demurely  beside  the  porcelain  counter  and 

[113] 


Pipefuls 

whipped  dextrously  off  In  front  of  you  by  the 
presiding  waiter.  But  the  superlative  coffee  of  the 
Broad  Street  Station  lunch  counter  generally  lures 
me  on. 

What  mundane  joy  can  surpass  the  pleasure  of 
approaching  the  station  lunch  counter,  with  full  ten 
minutes  to  satisfy  a  morning  appetite!  "Morning, 
colonel,"  says  the  waiter,  recognizing  a  steady 
customer.  "Wheatcakes  and  coffee,"  you  cry. 
With  one  deft  gesture,  it  seems,  he  has  handed  you  a 
glass  brimming  with  ice  water  and  spread  out  a 
snowy  napkin.  In  another  moment  here  is  the 
coffee,  with  the  generous  jug  of  cream.  You  splash 
in  a  large  lump  of  ice  to  make  it  cool  enough  to 
drink.  Perhaps  the  seat  next  you  is  empty,  and  you 
put  your  books  and  papers  on  it,  thus  not  having  to 
balance  them  gingerly  on  your  knees.  All  round 
you  is  a  lusty  savour  of  satisfaction,  the  tinkle  of 
cash  registers,  napkins  fluttering  and  flashing  across 
the  counters,  coloured  waiters  darting  to  and  fro, 
great  clouds  of  steam  rising  where  the  big  dish  covers 
are  raised  on  the  cooking  tables.  You  see  the  dark- 
brown  coffee  gently  quivering  in  the  glass  gauge  of 
the  nickel  boiler.  Then  here  come  the  wheatcakes. 
Nowhere  else  on  earth,  I  firmly  believe,  are  they 
cooked  to  just  that  correct  delicacy  of  golden  brown 
colour;  nowhere  else  are  they  so  soft  and  light  of 
texture,  so  hot,  so  beautifully  overlaid  with  a  smooth, 
almost  intangible  suggestion  of  crispness.  Two 
[114] 


An  Early  Train 

golden  butter  pats  salute  the  eye,  and  a  jug  of  syrup. 
It  is  now  7:38. 

As  everyone  knows,  the  correct  thing  is  to  start 
immediately  on  the  first  cake,  using  only  syrup.  The 
method  of  dealing  with  the  other  two  is  classic.  One 
lifts  the  upper  one  and  places  a  whole  pat  of  butter 
on  the  lower  cake.  Then  one  replaces  the  upper 
cake  upon  the  lower,  leaving  the  butter  to  its  fate. 
In  that  hot  and  enviable  embrace  the  butter  liquefies 
and  spreads  itself,  gently  anointing  the  field  of 
coming  action.  Upon  the  upper  shield  one  smilingly 
distributes  the  second  butter  pat,  knifed  off  into 
small  slices  for  greater  speed  of  melting.  By  the 
time  the  first  cake  has  been  eaten,  with  the  syrup, 
the  other  two  will  be  ready  for  manifest  destiny. 
The  butter  will  be  docile  and  submissive.  Now, 
after  again  making  sure  of  the  time  (7:40)  the  syrup 
is  brought  into  play  and  the  palate  has  the  congenial 
task  of  determining  whether  the  added  delight  of 
melting  butter  outweighs  the  greater  hotness  and 
primal  thrill  of  the  first  cake  which  was  glossed  with 
the  syrup  only.  You  drain  your  coffee  to  the  dregs; 
gaze  pityingly  on  those  rushing  in  to  snap  up  a 
breakfast  before  the  8  o'clock  leaves  for  New  York, 
pay  your  check,  and  saunter  out  to  the  train.  It  is 
7:43. 

This,  to  be  sure,  is  only  the  curtain-raiser  to  the 
pleasures  to  follow.  This  has  been  a  physical  and 
carnal  pleasure.  Now  follow  delights  of  the  mind. 

[115] 


Pipefuls 

In  the  great  gloomy  shed  wafts  and  twists  of  thick 
steam  are  jetting  upward,  heavily  coiled  in  the  cold 
air.  In  the  train  you  smoke  two  pipes  and  read  the 
morning  paper.  Then  you  are  set  down  at  Haver- 
ford.  It  is  like  a  fairyland  of  unbelief.  Trees  and 
shrubbery  are  crusted  and  sheathed  in  crystal,  lucid 
like  chandeliers  in  the  flat,  thin  light.  Along  the 
fence,  as  you  go  up  the  hill,  you  marvel  at  the 
scarlet  berries  in  the  hedge,  gleaming  through  the 
glassy  ribs  of  the  bushes.  The  old  willow  tree  by  the 
Conklin  gate  is  etched  against  the  sky  like  a  Japanese 
drawing — it  has  a  curious  greenish  colour  beneath 
that  gray  sky.  There  is  some  mystery  in  all  this. 
It  seems  more  beautiful  than  a  merely  mortal  earth 
vexed  by  sinful  men  has  any  right  to  be.  There  is 
some  ice  palace  in  Hans  Andersen  which  is  some 
thing  like  it.  In  a  little  grove,  the  boughs,  bent 
down  with  their  shining  glaziery,  creak  softly  as  they 
sway  in  the  moving  air.  The  evergreens  are  clotted 
with  lumps  and  bags  of  transparent  icing,  their 
fronds  sag  to  the  ground.  A  pale  twinkling  blueness 
sifts  over  distant  vistas.  The  sky  whitens  in  the 
south  and  points  of  light  leap  up  to  the  eye  as  the 
wind  turns  a  loaded  branch. 

A  certain  seriousness  of  demeanour  is  notice 
able  on  the  generally  unfurrowed  brows  of  stu 
dent  friends.  Midyears  are  on  and  one  sees  them 
walking,  freighted  with  precious  and  perishable 
erudition,  toward  the  halls  of  trial.  They  seem  a 

[116] 


An  Early  Train 

little  oppressed  with  care,  too  preoccupied  to  relish 
the  entrancing  pallor  of  this  crystallized  Eden. 
One  carries,  gravely,  a  cushion  and  an  alarm  clock. 
Not  such  a  bad  theory  of  life,  perhaps — to  carry  in 
the  crises  of  existence  a  cushion  of  philosophy  and  an 
alarum  of  resolution. 


[117] 


RIDGE  AVENUE 

ONE  of  the  odd  things  about  human  beings  is, 
that  wherever  they  happen  to  live  they  accept 
it  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  various  foreign  cities  I 
have  of  ten  been  amused  (as  every  traveller  has)  to  see 
people  going  about  their  affairs  just  as  though  it  were 
natural  and  unquestionable  for  them  to  be  there. 
It  is  just  the  same  at  home.  Everyone  I  see  on  the 
streets  seems  to  be  not  at  all  amazed  at  living  here 
instead  of  (let  us  say)  Indianapolis  or  Nashville.  I 
envy  my  small  Urchin  his  sense  of  the  extreme 
improbability  of  everything.  When  he  gets  on  a 
trolley  car  he  draws  a  long  breath  and  looks  around 
in  ecstasy  at  the  human  scenery.  I  am  teaching 
him  to  say  in  a  loud,  clear  tone,  as  he  gets  on  the  car, 
"Look  at  all  the  human  beings!"  in  the  same  accent 
of  amazement  that  he  uses  when  he  goes  to  the  Zoo. 
Perhaps  in  this  way  he  will  preserve  the  happy 
faculty  of  being  surprised. 

It  is  an  agreeable  thing  to  keep  the  same  sense  of 
surprise  in  one's  home  town  that  one  would  have  in 
a  strange  city.  You  will  find  much  to  startle  you  if 
you  keep  your  eyes  open.  Yesterday,  for  instance,  I 
was  lucky  enough  to  meet  a  gentleman  who  had 
stood  only  a  few  feet  away  from  Lincoln  when  he 

[118] 


Ridge  Avenue 

made  the  Gettysburg  Speech.  Then  I  found  that  in 
a  certain  cafeteria  which  I  frequent  the  price  you 
pay  for  your  lunch  is  always  just  one  cent  less  than 
that  punched  on  the  check.  The  cashier  explained 
that  this  always  gives  a  pleasant  surprise  to  the 
customers,  and  has  proved  such  a  good  advertising 
dodge  that  the  proprietor  made  it  a  habit.  And  I 
saw,  in  a  clothing  dealer's  window  on  Ninth  Street, 
some  fuzzy  caps  for  men,  mottled  purple  and  ochre, 
that  proved  that  the  adventurous  spirit  has  not 
died  in  the  breast  of  the  male  sex. 

There  is  much  to  exercise  the  eye  in  a  voyage  along 
Ridge  Avenue.  Approaching  by  way  of  Ninth 
Street,  one  sees  in  the  window  of  a  barber  shop  the 
new  contract  that  the  employing  barbers  have 
drawn  up  with  their  journeymen.  This  agreement 
shows  a  sound  sense  of  human  equities,  proclaiming 
as  it  does  that  "the  owner  must  not  do  no  act  to 
enjure  the  barber  personal  earnings."  It  suddenly 
occurred  to  me,  what  I  had  not  thought  of  before, 
how  the  barbers  of  Great  Britain  must  have  grieved 
when  a  London  newspaper  got  up  (some  years  ago) 
an  agitation  in  favour  of  every  man  in  England 
raising  a  beard  in  memory  of  King  Edward.  The 
plan  was  that  the  money  thus  saved  was  to  be  de 
voted  to  building — I  had  almost  said  "growing" — a 
battleship,  to  be  named  after  the  Merry  Monarch. 
Of  course,  one  should  not  speak  of  raising  a  beard, 
but  of  lowering  it.  However 

[119] 


Pipefuls 

Ridge  Avenue  begins  at  Ninth  and  Vine,  in  a 
mood  of  depression.  Perhaps  the  fact  that  it  runs 
out  toward  the  city's  greatest  collection  of  cemeteries 
has  made  it  morbidly  conscious  of  human  perish 
ability.  At  any  rate,  it  starts  among  pawnshops, 
old  clothing  and  furniture,  and  bottles  of  Old  Vir 
ginia  Bitters,  the  Great  Man  Restorer.  The 
famous  National  Theatre  at  Callowhill  Street  has 
become  a  garage:  it  is  queer  to  see  the  old 
proscenium  arch  and  gilded  ceiling  dustily  vaulted 
over  a  fleet  of  motortrucks.  After  a  wilderness  of 
railway  yards  one  comes  to  a  curious  bit  in  the  1100 
block;  a  little  brick  tunnel  that  bends  around  into  a 
huddle  of  backyards  and  small  houses,  where  a 
large  green  parrot  was  stooping  and  nodding  on  a 
pile  of  old  boxes.  This  little  scene  is  overlooked  by 
the  tall  brown  spires  of  the  Church  of  the  Assump 
tion  on  Spring  Garden  Street. 

There  is  matter  for  tarrying  at  the  Spring  Garden 
Street  crossing.  Here  is  an  ambitious  fountain  built 
by  the  bequest  of  Mary  Rebecca  Darby  Smith,  with 
the  carving  by  J.  J.  Boyle  picturing  another  Rebecca 
(she  of  Genesis  xxiv,  14)  giving  a  drink  to  Abra 
ham's  servant  and  his  camels.  It  is  carved  in  the 
bronze  that  the  donor  gave  the  fountain  "To  refresh 
the  weary  and  thirsty,  both  man  and  beast,"  so  it  is 
disconcerting  to  find  it  dry,  as  dry  as  the  inns  along 
the  way.  The  horse  trough  is  boarded  over  and 
thirsting  equines  go  up  to  Broad  Street  for  a  draught. 
[120] 


Ridge  Avenue 

The  seat  by  the  fountain  was  occupied  by  a  man  read 
ing  the  New  York  Journal,  always  a  depressing 
sight. 

Across  from  the  fountain  is  one  of  the  best  maga 
zine  and  stationery  shops  in  the  city.  Here  I  over 
heard  a  conversation  which  I  reproduce  textually. 
"What  you  doing,  reading?"  said  one  to  another. 
"Yes,  reading  about  the  biggest  four-flusher  in  the 
Yew-nited  States,"  said  he,  looking  over  an  after 
noon  paper  which  had  just  come  in.  "Who  do  you 
mean?  "  "Penrose.  Say  if  it  was  a  Republican  in  the 
White  House,  they  da  passed  the  treaty  long  ago." 
The  proprietor  of  this  shop  is  a  humorist.  Some 
one  came  in  asking  for  a  certain  brand  of  cigarettes. 
He  does  not  sell  tobacco.  "Next  door,"  he  said,  and 
added :  "And  you'll  find  some  over  on  the  fountain." 

Ridge  Avenue  specializes  in  tobacco  shops,  where 
you  will  find  many  brands  that  require  a  strong  head. 
Red  Snapper,  Panhandle  Scrap,  Pinch  Hit,  Red 
Horse,  Brown's  Mule,  Jolly  Tar,  Penn  Statue  Cut 
tings,  Nickel  Cross  Cut,  Cotton  Ball  Twist.  In 
the  shop  windows  you  will  see  those  photographs 
illustrating  current  events,  the  two  favourites  just 
now  being  a  picture  of  Mike  Gilhooley,  the  famous 
stowaway,  gazing  plaintively  at  the  profile  of  New 
York,  and  "Jack  Dempsey  Goes  the  Limit,"  where 
Jack  signs  up  for  a  $1,000  war-savings  certificate. 
One  wonders  if  Jack's  kind  of  warfare  is  really  so 
profitable  after  all. 

[1211 


Pipefuls 

There  are  a  number  of  little  side  excursions  from 
the  avenue  that  repay  scrutiny.  Lemon  Street,  for 
instance,  where  in  a  lane  of  old  brown  wooden  houses 
some  children  were  playing  in  an  empty  wagon,  with 
the  rounded  tower  of  the  Rodef  Shalom  synagogue 
looming  in  the  background.  Best  of  all  is  Melon 
Street  and  its  modest  tributary,  Park  Avenue — 
stretches  of  quiet  little  brick  homes  with  green  and 
yellow  shutters  and  mottled  gray  marble  steps. 
These  little  houses  have  the  serene  and  sunny  air  so 
typical  of  Philadelphia  byways.  Through  their 
narrow  side  entrances  one  sees  glimpses  of  green  in 
backyards.  In  the  front  windows  move  the  gently 
swaying  faces  of  grandmothers,  lulled  in  the  to  and 
fro  of  a  rocking  chair.  There  are  shining  brass 
knobs  and  bell-pulls;  rubber  plants  on  the  sills,  or 
perhaps  a  small  bowl  of  goldfish  with  a  white  china 
swan  floating.  In  one  window  was  a  sign 
"Vacancies."  Over  it  hung  a  faded  service  flag 
with  a  golden  star.  Who  could  phrase  the  pathos  of 
these  two  things,  side  by  side? 

At  Broad  Street,  Ridge  Avenue  leaps  up  with  a 
spurt  of  high  life.  In  the  window  of  a  hotel  dining 
room  a  gentleman  sat  eating  his  lunch,  stevedoring  a 
buttered  roll  with  such  gusto  that  one  felt  tempted  to 
applaud.  There  are  the  white  pillars  of  a  bank  and 
the  battleship  gray  of  the  Salvation  Army  head 
quarters.  Beyond  Broad,  the  avenue  spruces  up  a 
bit  and  enters  upon  a  vivacious  phase.  Dogs  are 
[122] 


Ridge  Avenue 

frequent:  white  bull  terriers  lie  sunning  in  the 
shop  windows.  Offers  to  lend  money  are  enticing. 
There  is  a  fascinating  slate  yard  at  1525,  where 
great  gray  slabs  lie  in  the  sun,  a  temptation  to  ur 
chins  with  a  bit  of  chalk.  In  the  warm  bask  of  the 
afternoon  there  rises  a  pleasing  aroma  of  fruits  and 
vegetables  piled  up  in  baskets  and  crates  on  the 
pavement.  Grapes  give  off  a  delectable  savour  in  the 
golden  air.  Elderly  ladies  are  out  in  force  to  do  the 
marketing,  and  their  eyes  are  bright  with  the  bargain 
ing  passion.  Round  the  windows  of  a  ten-cent 
store,  most  fascinating  of  all  human  spectacles,  they 
congregate  and  compare  notes.  A  fruit  dealer  has 
an  ingenious  stunt  to  attract  attention.  On  his  cash 
register  lies  a  weird-looking  rotund  little  fish — a 
butter  fish,  he  calls  it — which  has  a  face  not  unlike 
that  of  Fatty  Arbuckle.  Either  this  fish  inflates  it 
self  or  he  has  blown  it  full  of  air  in  some  ingenious 
manner,  for  it  presents  a  grotesque  appearance,  and 
many  ladies  stop  to  inquire.  Then  he  spoofs  them 
gently.  "Sure,"  he  says,  "it's  a  jitney  fish.  It 
lives  on  the  cash  register.  It  can  fly,  it  can  bite,  it 
can  talk,  and  it  likes  money." 

At  the  corner  of  Wylie  Street  stands  an  old  gray 
house  with  a  mansard  roof  and  gable  windows. 
Against  it  is  a  vivid  store  of  fruit  glowing  in  the  sun, 
red  and  purple  and  yellow.  Here,  or  on  Vineyard 
Street,  one  turns  off  to  enter  the  quaint  triangular 
settlement  of  Francis ville. 

[123] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  AND  THE  URCHIN 


SUNDAY  afternoon  is  by  old  tradition  dedi 
cated  to  the  taking  of  Urchins  out  to  taste 
the  air,  and  indeed  there  is  no  more  agreeable 
pastime.  And  so,  as  the  Urchin  sat  in  his  high 
chair  and  thoughtfully  shovelled  his  spoon  through 
meat  chopped  remarkably  small  and  potatoes 
mashed  in  that  curious  fashion  that  produces  a  mass 
of  soft,  curly  tendrils,  his  curators  discussed  the 
question  of  where  he  should  be  taken. 

It  was  the  first  Sunday  hi  March — mild  and  soft 
and  tinctured  with  spring.     "There's  the  botanic 
garden    at    the    University,"    I    suggested.    The 
[124] 


University  and  Urchin 

Urchin  settled  it  by  rattling  his  spoon  on  the  plate 
and  sliding  several  inches  of  potato  into  his  lap. 
"Go  see  garden!"  he  cried.  With  the  generous 
tastes  of  twenty-seven  months  he  cares  very  little 
where  he  is  taken;  he  can  find  fascination  in  any 
thing;  but  something  about  the  word  "garden" 
seemed  to  allure  him.  So  a  little  later  when  he  had 
been  duly  habited  in  brown  leggings,  his  minute 
brown  overcoat,  and  white  hat  with  ribbons  behind 
it,  he  and  his  curators  set  out.  The  Urchin  was  in 
excellent  spirits,  for  he  had  been  promised  a  ride  on  a 
trolley  car — a  glorious  adventure.  In  one  pocket  he 
carried  his  private  collection  of  talismans,  including 
a  horse-chestnut  and  a  picture  of  a  mouse.  Also, 
against  emergencies,  a  miniature  handkerchief  with 
a  teddy  bear  embroidered  in  one  corner  and  a  safety 
pin.  The  expedition  may  be  deemed  to  have  been  a 
success,  as  none  of  these  properties  were  called  upon 
or  even  remembered. 

The  car  we  boarded  did  not  take  us  just  where  we 
expected  to  go,  but  that  made  little  difference  to  the 
Urchin,  who  gazed  steadfastly  out  of  the  window  at 
a  panorama  of  shabby  streets,  and  offered  no  com 
ment  except  one  of  extreme  exultation  when  we 
passed  a  large  poster  of  a  cow.  Admirably  docile,  he 
felt  confident  that  the  unusual  conjunction  of  both 
arbiters  of  destiny  and  an  impressive  trolley  car 
would  in  the  end  produce  something  extremely 
worth  while.  We  sped  across  Gray's  Ferry  bridge — 

[125] 


Pipefuls 

it  seems  strange  to  think  that  region  was  once  so 
quiet,  green,  and  rustic — transferred  to  another  car 
on  Woodland  Avenue,  past  the  white  medley  of 
tombstones  in  Woodland  Cemetery,  and  got  off  at 
the  entrance  to  the  dormitory  quadrangles  at  Thirty- 
seventh  Street.  We  entered  through  the  archway — 
the  Urchin's  first  introduction  to  an  academic  at 
mosphere.  "This  is  the  University,"  I  said  to  him 
severely,  and  he  was  much  impressed.  As  is  his 
way,  he  conducted  himself  with  extreme  sobriety 
until  he  should  get  the  hang  of  this  new  experience  and 
see  what  it  was  all  about.  I  knew  from  the  serene 
gold  sparkle  of  his  brown  eyes  that  there  was  plenty 
of  larking  spirit  in  him,  waiting  until  he  knew 
whether  it  was  safe  to  give  it  play.  He  held  my 
hand  punctiliously  while  waiting  to  see  what  manner 
of  place  this  University  was. 

A  college  quadrangle  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  has  a 
feeling  all  its  own.  Thin  tinklings  of  mandolins 
eddy  from  open  windows,  in  which  young,  men  may 
be  seen  propped  up  against  bright-coloured  cushions, 
always  smoking,  and  sometimes  reading  with  an 
apparent  zeal  which  might  deceive  a  few  onlookers. 
But  the  slightest  sound  of  footfalls  on  the  pavement 
outside  their  rooms  causes  these  heads  to  turn  and 
scan  the  passers.  There  is  always  a  vague  hope  in 
these  youthful  breasts  that  some  damsel  of  notable 
fairness  may  have  strayed  within  the  bastions. 
Groups  of  ladies  of  youth  and  beauty  do  often  walk 
[126] 


University  and  Urchin 

demurely  through  the  courts,  and  may  be  sure  of 
hearing  admiring  whistles  shrilled  through  the  sunny 
air.  When  a  lady  walks  through  a  college  quad 
rangle  and  hears  no  sibilation,  let  her  know  sadly 
that  first  youth  is  past.  Even  the  sedate  guardian 
ship  of  Scribe  and  Urchin  did  not  forfeit  one  Lady  of 
Destiny  her  proper  homage  of  tuneful  testimonial. 
So  be  it  ever! 

One  who  inhabited  college  quadrangles  not  so 
immeasurably  long  ago,  and  remembers  with  secret 
pain  how  massively  old,  experienced,  and  worldly 
wise  he  then  thought  himself,  can  never  resist  a 
throb  of  amazement  at  the  entertaining  youthfulness 
of  these  young  monks.  How  quaintly  juvenile  they 
are,  and  how  oddly  that  assumption  of  grave 
superiority  sits  upon  their  golden  brows!  With 
what  an  inimitable  air  of  wisdom,  cynicism, 
ancientry,  learned  aloofness  and  desire  to  be  ob 
served  do  they  stroll  to  and  fro  across  the  quads,  so 
keenly  aware  in  their  inmost  bosoms  of  the  presence 
of  visitors  and  determined  to  grant  an  appearance  of 
mingled  wisdom,  great  age,  and  sad  doggishness! 
What  a  devil-may-care  swing  to  the  stride,  what  a 
nonchalance  in  the  perpetual  wreath  of  cigarette 
smoke,  what  a  carefully  assumed  bearing  of  one 
carrying  great  wisdom  lightly  and  easily  casting  it 
aside  for  the  moment  in  the  pursuit  of  some  waggish 
trifle.  "Here,"  those  very  self-conscious  young 
visages  seem  to  betray,  "is  one  who  might  tell  you 

[1*7] 


Pipefuls 

all  about  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  and  yet  is,  for  the 
moment,  diverting  himself  with  a  mere  mandolin." 
And  yet,  as  the  Lady  of  Destiny  shrewdly  observed, 
it  is  a  pity  they  should  mar  their  beautiful  quad 
rangles  with  orange  peel  and  scraps  of  paper. 

We  walked  for  some  time  through  those  stately 
courts  of  Tudor  brick  and  then  passed  down  the 
little  inclined  path  to  the  botanic  garden,  where 
irises  and  fresh  green  spikes  are  already  pushing  up 
through  the  damp  earth.  A  pale  mellow  sunlight 
lay  upon  the  gravel  walks  and  the  Urchin  resumed 
his  customary  zeal.  He  ran  here  and  there  along  the 
byways,  examined  the  rock  borders  with  an  air  of 
scientific  questioning,  and  watched  the  other  children 
playing  by  the  muddy  pond.  We  found  shrubbery 
swelling  with  buds,  also  flappers  walking  hatless 
and  blanched  with  talcum,  accompanied  by  Urchins 
of  a  larger  growth.  Both  these  phenomena  we  took 
to  be  a  sign  of  the  coming  equinox. 

Returning  to  the  dormitory  quadrangles,  we  sat 
down  on  a  wooden  bench  to  rest,  while  the  Urchin, 
now  convinced  that  a  university  is  nothing  to  be 
awed  by,  scampered  about  on  the  turf.  His  eye  was 
a  bright  jewel  of  roguishness,  for  he  thought  that  in 
trotting  about  the  grass  he  was  doing  something 
supremely  wicked.  He  has  been  carefully  trained 
not  to  err  on  the  grass  of  the  city  square  to  which  he 
is  best  accustomed,  so  this  surprising  and  unchecked 
revelry  quite  went  to  his  head.  Across  and  about 
[128] 


University  and  Urchin 

those  wide  plots  of  sodden  turf  he  trotted  and 
chuckled,  a  small,  quaint  mortal  with  his  hat  ribbons 
fluttering.  Cheering  whistles  hailed  him  from  open 
windows  above,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  with  grave 
dignity.  Apparently,  like  a  distinguished  states 
man,  he  regarded  these  tributes  not  as  meant  for 
himself,  but  for  the  great  body  of  childhood  he 
innocently  represents,  and  indeed  from  which  his 
applauders  are  not  so  inextricably  severed.  With 
the  placid  and  unconscious  happiness  of  a  puppy  he 
careered  and  meandered,  without  motive  or  method. 
Perhaps  his  underlying  thought  of  a  university,  if  he 
has  any,  is  that  it  is  a  place  where  no  one  says  "Keep 
Off  the  Grass,"  and,  intellectually  speaking,  that 
would  not  be  such  a  bad  motto  for  an  institution  of 
learning. 

I  don't  know  whether  Doctor  Tait  McKenzie  so 
intended  it,  but  his  appealing  and  beautiful  statue  of 
Young  Franklin  in  front  of  the  University 
gymnasium  is  admirably  devised  for  the  delight  of 
small  Urchins.  While  their  curators  take  pleasure 
in  the  bronze  itself,  the  Urchin  may  clamber  on  the 
different  levels  of  the  base,  which  is  nicely  adapted 
for  the  mountaineering  capacity  of  twenty-seven 
months.  The  low  brick  walls  before  the  gymnasium 
and  the  University  museum  are  also  just  right  for 
an  Urchin  who  has  recently  learned  the  fascination 
of  walking  on  something  raised  above  the  ground, 
provided  there  is  a  curator  near  by  to  hold  his  hand. 

1129] 


Pipefuls 

• 

And  then,  as  one  walks  away  toward  the  South 
Street  bridge  an  observant  Urchin  may  spy  the  de 
lightful  spectacle  of  a  freight  train  travelling  ap 
parently  in  midair.  Some  day,  one  hopes,  all  that 
fine  tract  of  open  space  leading  from  the  museum 
down  to  the  railroad  tracks  may  perhaps  be 
beautified  as  a  park  or  an  addition  to  the  University's 
quadrangle  system.  I  don't  know  who  owns  it,  but 
its  architectural  possibilities  must  surely  make  the 
city-planner's  mouth  water. 

By  this  time  the  Urchin  was  beginning  to  feel  a 
bit  weary,  and  was  glad  of  a  lift  on  a  parental 
shoulder.  Then  a  Lombard  Street  car  came  along 
and  took  us  up  halfway  across  the  bridge.  So 
ended  the  Urchin's  first  introduction  to  a  university 
education. 


[130] 


PINE  STREET 

OUR  neighbourhood  is  very  genteel.  I  doubt  if 
any  one  who  has  not  lived  in  Philadelphia  can 
imagine  how  genteel  it  is.  Visitors  from  out  of 
town  are  wont  to  sigh  with  rapture  when  they  see 
our  trim  blocks  of  tall  brick  dwellings — that  even 
cornice  running  in  a  smooth  line  for  several  hundred 
yards  really  is  quite  a  sight — and  exclaim,  "Oh,  I 
wish  we  had  something  like  this  in  New  York!" 
But  our  gentility  is  a  little  self-conscious,  for  we  live 
on  the  very  frontier  of  a  region,  darker  in  complex 
ion,  which  is  far  from  scrupulous  in  deportment. 
Uproarious  and  nai've  are  the  humours  of  South 
Street,  lying  just  behind  us.  Stanleys  have  gone 
exploring  thither  and  come  back  with  merry  tales. 
South  Street  on  a  bright  evening,  its  myriad  barber 
shops  gleaming  with  lathered  dusky  cheeks,  wafting 
the  essence  of  innumerable  pomades  and  lotions,  that 
were  a  Travel  indeed.  On  South  Street  the  veins  of 
life  run  close  to  the  surface. 

We  are  no  less  human  on  our  street,  but  it  takes  a 
bit  more  study  to  get  at  the  secret.  There  is  a  cer 
tain  reticence  about  us.  It  would  take  an  earth 
quake  to  cause  much  fraternization  along  Pine  Street. 

[131] 


Pipefuls 

Perhaps  it  is  because  three  houses  out  of  every  four 
bear  the  tablets  of  doctors.  The  average  layman 
fears  to  stop  and  speak  to  his  neighbour  for  fear  it 
will  develop  into  a  professional  matter.  We  board  up 
our  front  windows  at  night  with  heavy  wooden 
shutters.  We  have  no  druggists,  only  "apothe 
caries."  These  apothecaries  are  closed  on  Sundays. 
They  sell  stamps  in  little  isinglass  capsules,  to  be 
quite  sanitary,  two  twos  in  a  capsule  for  five  cents. 
In  their  shops  you  can  still  get  soda  water  with 
"plain  cream"  and  shaved  ice,  such  as  was  cus 
tomary  twenty-five  years  ago.  When  our  doctors 
go  away  for  the  summer,  someone  comes  twice  a 
week  from  June  to  October  to  polish  up  the  little 
silver  name  plate.  It  is  the  custom  in  our  neighbour 
hood  (so  one  observes  through  drawing  room  win 
dows)  to  have  reading  lamps  with  rosy  pink  shades 
and  at  least  two  beautiful  daughters  of  debutante 
age.  I  hope  I  am  not  unjust,  but  our  street  looks  to 
me  like  the  kind  of  place  where  people  take  warm 
baths,  in  a  roomy  old  china  tub,  on  Sunday  after 
noons.  After  that,  they  go  downstairs  and  play  a 
hymn  on  the  piano,  at  twilight. 

There  are  a  number  of  very  odd  features  about  our 
neighbourhood.  There  is  a  large  school  house  at  the 
next  corner,  but  as  far  as  I  can  see,  it  is  not  used  as  a 
school,  not  for  children,  at  any  rate.  Sometimes, 
about  8  o'clock  in  the  evening,  I  see  the  building 
gloriously  illuminated,  and  a  lonely  lady  stooped  and 
[132] 


Pine  Street 


assiduous  at  a  table.  She  seems  quite  solitary. 
Perhaps  her  researches  are  so  poignant  that  the 
school  board  has  prescribed  entire  silence.  But 
midway  down  the  block  is  a  very  jolly  little  private 
school,  to  which  very  genteel  children  may  be  seen 
approaching  early  in  the  morning.  The  little  girls 
come  with  a  bustle  of  starch,  on  foot,  accompanied 
by  governesses;  the  small  boys  arrive  in  limousines. 
They  are  small  boys  dressed  very  much  in  the 
English  manner,  with  heavy  woollen  stockings  ending 
just  below  the  knee.  They  probably  do  not  realize 
that  their  tailor  has  carefully  planned  them  to  look 
like  dear  little  English  boys.  Then  there  is  a  very 
mysterious  small  theatre  near  by.  If  it  were  a 
movie  theatre,  what  a  boon  it  would  be!  But  no,  it 
is  devoted  to  a  strange  cult  called  the  Religion  of 

[133] 


Pipefuls 

Business,  which  meets  there  on  Sundays.  Before 
that,  there  was  a  Korean  congress  there.  There  is  a 
lovely  green  room  in  this  theatre,  but  not  much  long 
green  in  the  box  office.  Philadelphia  prefers  Al 
Jolson  to  Hank  Ibsen. 

We  have  our  tincture  of  vie  de  Boheme,  though,  in 
our  little  French  table  d'hote,  a  thoroughly  at 
mospheric  place.  Delightful  Madame  B.,  with  her 
racy  philosophy  of  life,  what  delicious  soups  and 
salads  she  serves !  Happy  indeed  are  those  who  have 
learned  the  way  to  her  little  tables,  and  heard  her 
cheerful  cry  "A  la  cuisine!"  when  one  of  her  small 
dogs  prowls  into  the  dining  room.  Equally  unique 
is  the  old  curiosity  shop  near  by,  one  of  the  few  gen 
uine  "notion"  shops  left  in  the  city  (though  there  is 
a  delightful  one  on  Market  Street  near  Seventeenth, 
to  enter  which  is  to  step  into  a  country  village) .  This 
is  just  the  kind  of  shop  bought  by  the  old  gentleman 
in  one  of  Frank  Stockton's  agreeable  tales,  "Mr. 
Tolman,"  in  the  volume  called  "The  Magic  Egg".  The 
proprietress,  charming  and  conversable  lady,  will  sell 
you  anything  in  the  "notions"  line,  from  a  paper  of 
pins  to  garter  elastic.  Then  there  is  the  laundry, 
whose  patrons  carry  on  a  jovial  game  known  as 
"Looking  for  Your  Own."  Every  week,  by  some 
cheery  habit  of  confusion,  the  lists  are  lost,  and  one 
hunts  through  shelves  of  neatly  piled  and  crisply 
laundered  garments  to  pick  out  one's  own  collars, 
pyjamas,  or  whatever  it  may  be.  The  amusing 
[134] 


Pine  Street 

humours  of  this  pastime  must  be  experienced  to  be 
understood. 

The  little  cigar  and  magazine  shop  on  the  corner  is 
the  political  and  social  focus  of  the  neighbourhood.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  pallid  and  ghastly  countenance 
of  the  newsdealer  when  the  rumour  first  went  the 
rounds  that  "Hampy"  was  elected.  Every  evening  a 
little  gathering  of  local  sages  meets  in  the  shop;  on 
tilted  chairs,  in  a  haze  of  tobacco,  they  while  the 
hours  away.  In  tobacco  the  host  adheres  to  the 
standard  blends,  but  in  literature  he  is  enterprising. 
Until  recently  this  was  the  only  place  I  know  in 
Philadelphia  where  one  could  get  the  Illustrated 
London  News  every  week. 

There  are  twinges  of  modernity  going  on  along  our 
street.  Some  of  the  old  houses  have  been  remodeled 
into  apartments.  There  is  an  "electric  shoe  re 
pairer"  just  round  the  corner.  But  the  antique 
dealers  and  plumbers  for  which  the  street  is  famous 
still  hold  sway;  the  fine  old  brick  pavement  still  col 
lects  rain  water  in  its  numerous  dimpled  hollows, 
and  the  yellowish  marble  horse-blocks  adorn  the  curb. 
The  nice  shabby  stables  in  the  little  side  streets  have 
not  yet  been  turned  into  studios  by  artists,  and  the 
neighbourhood's  youngest  urchins  set  sail  for  Ritten- 
house  Square  every  morning  on  their  fleet  of  "kiddie- 
cars."  Their  small  stout  legs,  twinkling  along  the 
pavements  in  white  gaiters  on  a  wintry  day,  area 
pleasant  sight.  Even  our  urchins  are  notably  gen- 

[135] 


Pipefuls 

teel.  Surrounded  on  all  sides  by  the  medical  profes 
sion,  they  are  reared  on  registered  milk  and  educator 
crackers.  If  Philadelphia  ever  betrays  its  soul,  it 
does  so  on  this  delightful,  bland,  and  genteel  high 
way. 


[1S6] 


PERSHING  IN  PHILADELPHIA 


THE  pavement  in  front  of  Independence  Hall 
was  a  gorgeous  jumble  of  colours.  The  great 
silken  flags  of  the  Allies,  carried  by  vividly  costumed 
ladies,  burned  and  flapped  in  the  wind.  On  a 
pedestal  stood  the  Goddess  of  Liberty,  in  rich  white 
draperies  that  seemed  fortunately  of  sufficient 
texture  to  afford  some  warmth,  for  the  air  was  cool. 
She  graciously  turned  round  for  Walter  Crail,  the 
photographer  of  our  contemporary,  the  Evening 
Public  Ledger,  to  take  a  shot  at  her. 

Down  Chestnut  Street  came  a  rising  tide  of 
cheers.  A  squadron  of  mounted  police  galloped  by. 
Then  the  First  City  Troop,  with  shining  swords. 

[137] 


Pipefuls 

i 

Fred  Eckersburg,  the  State  House  engineer,  was 
fidgeting  excitedly  inside  the  hall,  in  a  new  uniform. 
This  was  Fred's  greatest  day,  but  we  saw  that  he  was 
worried  about  Martha  Washington,  the  Inde 
pendence  Hall  cat.  He  was  apprehensive  lest  the 
excitement  should  give  her  a  fit  or  a  palsy.  Inde 
pendence  Hall  is  no  longer  the  quiet  old  place 
Martha  used  to  enjoy  before  the  war. 

The  Police  Band  struck  up  "Hail  to  the  Chief." 
Yells  and  cheers  burst  upward  from  the  ground  like 
an  explosion.  Here  he  was,  standing  in  the  car. 
There  was  the  famous  chin,  the  Sam  Browne  belt, 
the  high  laced  boots  with  spurs.  Even  the  tan 
gloves  carried  in  the  left  hand.  There  was  the  smile, 
without  which  no  famous  man  is  properly  equipped 
for  public  life.  There  was  Governor  Sproul's 
placid  smile,  too,  but  the  Mayor  seemed  too  excited 
to  smile.  Rattle,  rattle,  rattle  went  the  shutters  of 
the  photographers.  Up  the  scarlet  lane  of  carpet 
came  the  general.  His  manner  has  a  charming,  easy 
grace.  He  saluted  each  one  of  the  fair  ladies  garbed 
in  costumes  of  our  Allies,  but  taking  care  not  to 
linger  too  long  in  front  of  any  one  of  them  lest  any 
embracing  should  get  started.  A  pattering  of  tiger 
lilies  or  some  such  things  came  dropping  down  from 
above.  He  passed  into  the  hall,  which  was  cool  and 
smelt  like  a  wedding  with  a  musk  of  flowers. 

While  the  Big  Chief  was  having  a  medal  presented 
to  him  inside  the  hall  we  managed  to  scuttle  round 
[138] 


Pershing  in  Philadelphia 

underneath  the  grand  stand  and  take  up  a  pencil  of 
vantage  just  below  the  little  pulpit  where  the  general 
was  to  speak.  Here  the  crowd  groaned  against  a 
bulwark  of  stout  policemen.  Philadelphia  cops, 
bless  them,  are  the  best  tempered  in  the  world. 
(How  Boston  must  envy  us.)  Genially  two  gigantic 
bluecoats  made  room  against  the  straining  hawser  for 
young  John  Fisher,  aged  eleven,  of  332  Greenwich 
Street.  John  is  a  small,  freckle-faced  urchin.  It 
was  amusing  to  see  him  thrusting  his  eager  little 
beezer  between  the  vast,  soft,  plushy  flanks  of  two 
patrolmen.  He  had  been  there  over  two  hours 
waiting  for  just  this  adventure.  Then,  to  assert  the 
equality  of  the  sexes,  Mildred  Dubivitch,  aged 
eleven,  and  Eva  Ciplet,  aged  nine,  managed  to  insert 
themselves  between  the  chinks  in  the  line  of  cops. 
An  old  lady  more  than  eighty  years  old  was  sitting 
placidly  in  a  small  chair  just  inside  the  ropes.  She 
had  been  in  the  square  more  than  five  hours,  and  the 
police  had  found  her  a  seat.  "Are  you  going  to  put 
Pershing's  name  in,  too?"  asked  John  as  we  noted 
his  address. 

Independence  Square  never  knew  a  more  thrilling 
fifteen  minutes.  The  trees  were  tossing  and  bending 
in  the  thrilling  blue  air.  There  was  a  bronzy  tint  in 
their  foliage,  as  though  they  were  putting  on  olive 
drab  in  honour  of  the  general.  Great  balloons  of 
silver  clouds  scoured  across  the  cobalt  sky.  At  one 
minute  to  11  Pershing  appeared  at  the  top  of  the 

[139] 


Pipefuls 

stand.  The  whole  square,  massed  with  people, 
shook  with  cheers. 

Had  it  been  any  other  man  we  would  have  said  the 
general  was  frightened.  He  came  down  the  aisle  of 
the  stand  with  his  delightful,  easy,  smiling  swing;  but 
he  looked  shrewdly  about,  with  a  narrow-eyed,  puck 
ered  gaze.  He  was  plainly  a  little  flabbergasted. 
He  seemed  taken  aback  by  the  greatness  of  Phil 
adelphia's  voice.  He  said  something  to  himself.  On 
his  lips  it  looked  like  "What  the  deuce,"  or  some 
thing  of  similar  purport.  He  sat  down  on  a  chair 
beside  Governor  Sproul.  Not  more  than  four  feet 
away,  amazed  at  our  own  audacity,  we  peered  over 
the  floor  of  the  stand. 

He  was  paler  than  we  expected.  He  looked  a  bit 
tired.  Speaking  as  a  father,  we  were  pleased  to  note 
the  absence  of  Warren,  who  was  (we  hope)  getting  a 
good  sleep  somewhere.  We  had  a  good  look  at  the 
renowned  chin,  which  is  well  worth  study.  It  must 
be  a  hard  chin  to  shave.  It  juts  upward,  reaching  a 
line  exactly  below  the  brim  of  his  cap.  Below  his 
crescent  moustache  there  is  no  lower  lip  visible :  it 
is  tucked  and  folded  in  by  the  rising  thrust  of  the 
jaw.  It  is  this  which  gives  him  the  "grim"  aspect 
which  every  reader  of  the  papers  hears  about. 
He  is  grim,  there's  no  doubt  about  it,  with  the  grim- 
ness  of  a  man  going  through  a  tough  ordeal.  "I  can 
see  him  all  right,"  squeaked  little  John  Fisher,  "but 
he  doesn't  see  me."  The  first  two  rows  of  seats  at 
[140] 


Pershing  in  Philadelphia 

the  right  of  the  aisle  were  crammed  with  generals, 
two-star  and  three-star.  From  our  lowly  station  we 
could  see  a  grand  panorama  of  mahogany  leather 
boots  and  the  flaring  curves  of  riding  breeches.  It 
was  a  great  day  for  Sam  Browne.  The  thought  came 
to  us  that  has  reached  us  before.  The  higher  you  go 
in  the  A.  E.  F.  the  more  the  officers  are  tailored  after 
the  English  manner.  It  is  the  finest  proof  of  inter 
national  cousinship.  When  England  and  America 
wear  the  same  kind  of  clothes,  alliance  is  knit  solid. 

Pershing  sat  with  his  palms  on  his  knees.  He 
looked  worried.  There  was  a  wavering  crease  down 
his  lean  cheeks.  The  plumply  genial  countenance 
of  Governor  Sproul  next  to  him  was  an  odd  contrast 
to  that  dry,  hard  face.  The  bell  in  the  tower  tolled 
eleven  times.  He  stood  up  for  the  photographers. 
Walter  Crail,  appearing  from  somewhere,  sprang  up 
on  the  parapet  facing  the  general.  "  Look  this  way ! " 
he  shouted  as  the  general  turned  toward  some  movie 
men.  That  will  be  Walter's  first  cry  when  he  gets  to 
heaven,  or  wherever.  Mayor  Smith's  face  was  pallid 
with  excitement.  His  nicely  draped  trouserings, 
which  were  only  six  inches  from  our  notebook,  quiv 
ered  slightly  as  he  said  fifteen  words  of  introduction. 

As  Pershing  stood  up  to  speak  the  crowd  surged 
forward.  The  general  was  worried.  "Don't,  don't! 
Somebody  will  get  hurt!"  he  called  sharply.  Then 
Mayor  Smith  surged  forward  also  and  said  something 
to  the  police  about  watching  the  crowd. 

[1411 


Pipefuls 

The  general  took  off  his  cap.  Holding  it  in  his 
left  hand  (with  the  gloves)  he  patted  his  close- 
cropped  hair  nervously.  He  frowned.  He  began  to 
speak. 

The  speech  has  already  been  covered  by  our  hated 
rivals.  We  will  not  repeat  it,  save  to  say  that  it  was 
as  crisp,  clean-cut,  and  pointed  as  his  chin.  He  was 
nervous,  as  we  could  see  by  the  clenching  and  un 
clenching  of  his  hands.  His  voice  is  rather  high. 
We  liked  him  for  not  being  a  suave  and  polished 
speaker.  He  gestured  briskly  with  a  pointing  fore 
finger,  and  pronounced  the  word  patriotic  with  a 
short  A — "pattriotic."  Later  he  stumbled  over  it 
again  and  got  it  out  as  patterotism.  We  liked  him 
again  for  that.  He  doesn't  have  to  pronounce  it, 
anyway.  We  liked  him  best  of  all  for  the  un 
conscious  slip  he  made.  "This  reception,"  he  said, 
"I  understand  is  for  the  splendid  soldiery  of  America 
that  played  such  an  important  part  in  the  war  with 
our  Allies."  A  respectful  ripple  of  laughter  passed 
over  the  stand  at  this,  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  He 
was  fighting  too  hard  to  think  what  to  say  next. 
We  liked  him,  too,  for  saying  "such  an  important 
part."  A  man  who  had  been  further  away  from  the 
fighting  would  have  said  that  it  was  America,  alone 
and  unaided,  that  won  the  war.  He  is  just  as  we 
have  hoped  he  would  be:  a  plain,  blunt  man.  We 
have  heard  that  he  is  going  to  enter  the  banking 
business.  We'd  like  to  have  an  account  at  that  bank. 
[14*] 


FALL  FEVER 


A3OUT  this  time  of  year,  when  the  mellow  air 
swoons  (as  the  poets  say)  with  golden  languor 
and  the  landscape  is  tinged  a  soft  brown  like  a  piece 
of  toast,  we  feel  the  onset  and  soft  impeachment  of 
fall  fever. 

Fall  fever  is  (in  our  case  at  any  rate)  more  in 
sidious  than  the  familiar  disease  of  spring.  Spring 
fever  impels  us  to  get  out  in  the  country;  to  seize  a 
knotted  cudgel  and  a  pouchful  of  tobacco  and 
agitate  our  limbs  over  the  landscape.  But  the 
drowsiness  of  autumn  is  a  lethargy  in  the  true  sense 
of  that  word — a  forgetfulness.  A  forgetfulness  of 
past  discontents  and  future  joys;  a  forgetfulness  of 
toil  that  is  gone  and  leisure  to  come;  a  mere  breathing 
existence  in  which  one  stands  vacantly  eyeing  the 
human  scene,  living  in  a  gentle  simmer  of  the  faculties 
like  a  boiling  kettle  when  the  gas  is  turned  low. 

Fall  fever,  one  supposes,  is  our  inheritance  from 
the  cave  man,  who  (like  the  bear  and  the — well,  some 

[143] 


Pipefuls 

other  animal,  whatever  it  is)  went  into  hibernation 
about  the  first  of  November.  Autumn  with  its  soft 
inertia  lulled  him  to  sleep.  He  ate  a  hearty  meal, 
raked  together  some  dry  leaves,  curled  up  and  slid  off 
until  the  alarm  clock  of  April. 

This  agreeable  disease  does  not  last  very  long  with 
the  modern  man.  He  fights  bravely  against  it;  then 
the  frost  comes  along,  or  the  coal  bill,  and  stings  him 
into  activity.  But  for  a  few  days  its  genial  torpor 
may  be  seen  (by  the  observant)  even  in  our  bustling 
modern  career.  When  we  read  yesterday  that 
Judge  Audenried's  court  clerks  had  fallen  asleep 
during  ballot-counting  proceedings^  knew  that  the 
microbe  was  among  us  again.  Keats,  in  his  lovely 
Ode,  describes  the  figure  of  Autumn  as  stretched  out 
"on  a  half -reaped  furrow  sound  asleep."  Un 
happily  the  conventions  forbid  city  dwellers  from 
curling  up  on  the  pavements  for  a  cheerful  nap.  If 
one  were  brave  enough  to  do  so,  unquestionably 
many  would  follow  his  example,  $3ut  the  urbanite 
has  taught  himself  to  doze  upright.  You  may  see 
many  of  us,  standing  dreamily  before  Chestnut 
Street  show  windows  in  the  lunch  hour,  to  all  intents 
^and  purposes  in  a  state  of  slumber.  Yesterday,  in 
that  lucid  shimmer  of  warmth  and  light,  a  group 
stood  in  front  of  a  doughnut  window  near  Ninth 
Street :  not  one  of  them  was  more  than  half  awake. 
Similarly  a  gathering  watched  the  three  small  birds 
who  have  become  a  traditional  window  ornament  on 
[1441 


Fall  Fever 

Chestnut  Street  (they  have  recently  moved  from  an 
oculist  to  a  correspondence  course  office)  and  a  faint 
whisper  of  snoring  arose  on  the  sultry  air.  The 
customs  of  city  life  permit  a  man  to  stand  still  as 
long  as  he  likes  if  he  will  only  pretend  to  be  watching 
something.  We  saw  a  substantial  burgher  pivoted 
by  the  window  of  Mr.  Albert,  the  violin  maker,  on 
Ninth  Street.  Apparently  he  was  studying  the  fine 
autographed  photo  of  Patti  there  displayed;  but 
when  we  sidled  near  we  saw  that  his  eyes  were  closed; 
this  admirable  person,  who  seemed  to  be  what  is 
known  as  a  "busy  executive,"  and  whose  desk  un 
doubtedly  carries  a  plate-glass  sheet  with  the  orispns 
of  Swett  Marden  under  it,  was  in  a  blissful  doze. 
^Modern  life  (as  we  say)  struggles  against  this 
sweet  enchantment  of  autumn,  but  Nature  is  too 
strong  for  us.  (Whyis  it  that  all  these  strikes  occur 
just  at  this  time  of  year?  The  old  hibernating 
instinct  again,  perhaps.  The  workman  has  a  sub 
conscious-yearning  to  scratch  together  a  nice  soft 
heap  of  manila  envelopes  and  lie  down  on  tjiat 
couch  for  a  six  months'  ear-pounding.  There  are  all 
sorts  of  excuses  that  one  can  make  to  one's  self  for 
waving  farewell  to  toil.  Only  last  Sunday  we  saw 
this  ad  in  a  paper: 

HEIRS  WANTED.  The  war  is  over  and  has 
made  many  new  heirs.  You  may  be  one  of  them. 
Investigate.  Many  now  living  in  poverty  are  rich, 
but  don't  know  it. 

[145] 


Pipefuls 

Now  what  could  be  simpler  (we  said  to  ourself 
we  stood  contemplating  those  doughnuts)  than  to 
forsake  our  jolly  old  typewriter  and  spend  a  few 
months  in  "investigating"  whether  any  one  had 
made  us  his  heir?  It  might  be.  Odd  things  have 
happened.  Down  in  Washington  Square,  for  in 
stance  (we  thought),  are  a  number  of  sun- warmed 
benches,  very  reposeful  to  the  sedentary  parts,  on 
which  we  might  recline  and  think  over  the  possibility 
of  our  being  rich  unawares.  We  hastened  thither, 
but  apparently  many  had  had  the  same  idea. 
There  was  not  a  bench  vacant.  The  same  was 
true  in  Independence  Square  and  in  Franklin  Square. 
We  will  never  make  a  good  loafer.  There  is  too 
much  competition. 

So  we  came  back,  sadly,  to  our  rolltop  and  fell  to 
musing.  We  picked  up  a  magazine  and  found  some 
pictures  showing  how  Mary  Pickford  washes  her 
hair.  "If  I  am  sun-drying  my  hair,"  said  Mary 
(under  a  photo  showing  her  reclining  in  a  lovely 
garden  doing  just  that),  "I  usually  have  the  oppor 
tunity  to  read  a  scenario  or  do  some  other  duty 
which  requires  concentration."  And  it  occurred  to 
us  that  if  a  strain  like  that  is  put  upon  a  weak 
woman  we  surely  ought  to  be  able  to  go  on  moiling 
for  a  while,  Indian  summer  or  not.  And  then  we 
found  some  pictures  by  our  favourite  artist,  Coles 
Phillips,  with  that  lovely  shimmer  around  the  ankles, 
and  we  resolved  to  be  strong  and  brave  and  have 
[146] 


Fall  Fever 

pointed  finger-nails.  But  still,  in  the  back  of  OUT 
mind,  the  debilitating  influence  of  fall  fever  was  at 
work.*  We  said  to  ourself,  without  the  slightest 
thought  of  printing  it  (for  it  seemed  to  put  us  in  a 
false  light),  that  the  one  triumphant  and  unanswer 
able  epigram  of  mankind,  the  grandest  and  most 
resolute  utterance  in  the  face  of  implacable  fate,  is 
the  snore. 


1147] 


TWO  DAYS  BEFORE  CHRISTMAS 

WILL  the  hand-organ  man  please  call?  Our 
wife  has  dug  up  our  old  overcoat  and  insists 
on  giving  it  to  him.  We  intended  to  give  it  to  the 
Honolulu  Girls  around  at  the  Walnut  Theatre,  they 
looked  a  bit  goose-fleshed  last  week,  but  we  always 
have  hay  fever  when  we  get  near  those  grass  skirts. 
Grass  widows  is  what  the  profession  calls  the 
Hawaiian  ladies.  Hope  the  temperature  isn't  going 
up  again.  We  love  the  old-fashioned  Christmas  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  Nipping  air  makes  cheeks 
pink;  we  love  to  see  them  nestled  in  fur  coats  on 
Chestnut  Street.  This  is  the  time  of  year  to  do  un 
expected  kindnesses.  We  know  one  man  who 
stands  in  line  for  hours  in  front  of  movie  theatres 
just  in  order  to  shout  Merry  Christmas  through  the 
little  hole  in  the  glass.  Shaving  seems  less  of  a  bore. 
Newspapers  are  supposed  to  be  heartless,  but  they  all 
take  a  hand  in  trying  to  help  poor  children.  Find 
ourselves  humming  hymn  tunes.  Very  odd,  haven't 
been  to  a  church  for  years.  Great  fun  surprising 
people.  We've  been  reading  the  new  phone  book; 
noticed  several  ways  in  which  people  might  surprise 
each  other  by  calling  up  and  wishing  many  happy 
[148] 


Two  Days  Before  Christmas 

returns  of  the  day.  Why  doesn't  Beulah  R.  Wine 
ring  up  Mrs.  Louis  F.  Beer,  for  instance?  Or,  A.  D. 
Smoker  and  Burton  J.  Puffer  might  go  around  to 
W.  C.  Matchett,  tobacconist,  at  1635  South  Second 
Street,  and  buy  their  Christmas  cigars.  George 
Wharton  Pepper  might  give  Mayme  Salt  a  ring  (on 
the  phone,  that  is).  What  a  pleasant  voice  that 
telephone  operatrix  has.  Here's  to  you,  child,  and 
many  of  them.  Grand  time,  Christmas. 

Fine  old  Anglo-Saxon  festival,  Christmas.  A 
time  of  jovial  cheer  and  bracing  mirth.  Must  be  so, 
because  Doctor  Frank  Crane  and  Ralph  Waldo 
Trine  have  often  said  so.  Christmas  hard  on 
people  like  that,  however:  they  are  bursting  with 
the  Christmas  spirit  all  the  year  round;  very  trying 
when  the  real  occasion  comes.  That's  the  beauty  of 
having  a  peevish  and  surly  disposition:  when  one 
softens  up  at  Christmas  everybody  notices  it  and  is 
pleased.  Chaucer,  fine  old  English  poet,  first 
English  humorist,  gave  good  picture  of  Christmas 
cheer  more  than  five  hundred  years  ago.  Never 
quoted  on  Christmas  cards,  why  not  copy  it  here? 
Chaucer's  spelling  very  like  Ring  Lardner's,  but  good 
sort  just  the  same.  Says  he: 

And  this  was,  as  thise  bookes  me  remembre, 
The  colde,  frosty  sesoun  of  Decembre.     .     . 
The  bittre  frostes  with  the  sleet  and  reyn 
Destroyed  hath  the  grene  in  every  yard; 

[149] 


Pipefuls 

Janus  sit  by  the  fyre  with  double  beard, 
And  drynketh  of  his  bugle  horn  the  wyn; 
Biforn  hym  stant  brawn  of  the  tusked  swyn, 
And  "Nowel  "  crieth  every  lusty  man. 

Janus,  god  of  doors,  what  we  call  nowadays  a 
janitor.  Had  two  faces  so  he  could  watch  the  front 
and  back  door  at  once  and  get  a  double  tip  at 
Christmas  time.  Also,  that  was  why  he  wore  a 
beard;  too  much  trouble  to  shave.  We  don't  cry 
Nowel  any  more;  instead  we  petition  the  janitor  to 
send  up  a  little  more  steam.  But  what  a  jolly 
picture  Chaucer  gives  of  Christmas!  Wine  to 
drink  (fine  ruddy  wine,  as  red  as  the  holly  berries), 
crackling  flitch  of  pig  to  eat,  and  a  merry  cry  of  wel 
come  sounding  at  the  threshold  as  your  friends  come 
stamping  in  through  the  snow. 

Grand  time,  Christmas!  No  one  is  really  a 
Philadelphian  until  he  has  waited  for  a  Pine  Street 
car  on  a  snowy  night.  Please  have  my  seat,  madam, 
there's  plenty  of  room  on  the  strap.  Wonder  why 
the  pavement  on  Chestnut  Street  is  the  slipperiest 
in  the  world?  Always  fall  down  just  in  front  of  our 
bank;  most  embarrassing;  hope  the  paying  teller 
doesn't  see  us.  Very  annoying  to  lose  our  balance 
just  there.  Awfully  nice  little  girl  in  there  who 
balances  the  books.  Has  a  kind  heart.  The  count 
less  gold  of  a  merry  heart,  as  William  Blake  said. 
She  looks  awfully  downcast  when  our  balance  gets 
the  way  it  is  now.  Hate  to  disappoint  her.  Won't 
[150] 


Two  Days  Before  Christmas 

have  our  book  balanced  again  for  a  devil  of  a  while. 
Even  the  most  surly  is  full  of  smiles  nowadays. 
Most  of  us  when  we  fall  on  the  pavement  (did  you 
ever  try  it  on  Chestnut  between  Sixth  and  Seventh 
on  a  slippery  day?)  curse  the  granolithic  trust  and 
wamble  there  groaning.  But  not  nowadays.  Make 
the  best  of  things.  Fine  panorama  of  spats. 

Association  of  ideas.  Everybody  wears  silk 
stockings  at  Christmas  time.  Excessive  geniality  of 
the  ad- writers.  Uproarious  good  cheer.  Makes 
one  almost  ashamed  to  notice  the  high  price  of  every 
thing.  Radicals  being  deported.  Why  not  deport 
Santa  Claus,  too?  Very  radical  notion  that,  love 
your  neighbour  better  than  yourself.  Easy  to  do; 
very  few  of  us  such  dam  fools  as  to  love  ourselves, 
but  so  often  when  you  love  your  neighbour  she 
doesn't  return  it.  Nice  little  boxes  they  have  at  the 
ten-cent  stores,  all  covered  with  poinsettia  flowers,  to 
put  presents  in.  Wonder  when  poinsettia  began  to 
be  used  as  a  Christmas  decoration  and  why?  Every 
one  in  ten-cent  store  calls  them  "poinsiettas,"  but 
named  after  J.  R.  Poinsett.  Encyclopedia  very 
handy  at  times;  makes  a  good  Christmas  present, 
one  dollar  down  and  a  dollar  a  month  for  life.  No 
body  can  tell  the  difference  between  real  pearls  and 
imitation;  somebody  ought  to  put  the  oysters  wise. 
Save  them  a  lot  of  trouble  and  anxiety.  Don't 
know  just  what  duvetyne  is,  but  there  seems  to  be  a 

[151] 


Pipefuls 

lot  of  it  drunk  nowadays.  Hope  that  clockwork 
train  for  the  Urchin  will  arrive  soon;  we  were  hoping 
to  have  three  happy  evenings  playing  with  it  before 
he  sees  it.  Fine  to  have  children;  lots  of  fun  playing 
with  their  presents.  We  are  sure  that  life  after 
death  is  really  so,  because  children  always  kick  the 
blankets  off  at  night.  Fine  bit  of  symbolism  that; 
put  it  in  a  sermon,  unless  Doctor  Conwell  gets  there 
first. 

Grand  time,  Christmas !  We  vowed  to  try  to  take 
down  our  weight  this  winter,  and  then  they  put 
sugar  back  on  the  menu,  and  doughnut  shops  spring 
up  on  every  street,  and  Charles  F.  Jenkins  sent  us 
a  big  sack  of  Pocono  buckwheat  flour  and  we're  eat 
ing  a  basketful  of  griddle  cakes  every  morning  for 
breakfast.  Terrible  to  be  a  coward;  we  always  turn 
on  the  hot  water  first  in  the  shower  bath,  except  the 
first  morning  we  used  it.  The  plumber  got  the  in 
dicator  on  the  wrong  way  round,  and  when  you  turn 
to  the  place  marked  HOT  it  comes  down  like  ice. 
Our  idea  of  a  really  happy  man  is  the  fellow  driving  a 
wagonload  of  truck  just  in  front  of  a  trolley  car, 
holding  it  back  all  the  way  downtown;  when  he  hears 
the  motorman  clanging  away  he  pretends  he  thinks 
it's  the  Christmas  chimes  and  sings  "Hark  the 
Herald  Angels." 

Speaking  of  Herald  Angels  reminds  us  of  a  good 
story  about  James  Gordon  Bennett;  we'll  spring  it 
one  of  these  days  when  we're  hard  up  for  copy. 
[152] 


Two  Days  Before  Christmas 

Jack  Frost  must  be  a  married  man,  did  you  see  him 
try  to  cover  up  the  show  windows  with  his  little 
traceries  the  other  day  when  the  shopping  was  at  its 
height?  There  was  a  pert  little  hat  in  a  window  on 
Walnut  Street  we  were  very  much  afraid  someone 
might  see;  the  frost  saved  us.  Don't  forget  to  put 
Red  Cross  seals  on  your  letters.  Delightful  to 
watch  the  faces  on  the  streets  at  Christmas  time. 
Everybody  trying  hard  to  be  pleasant;  sometimes 
rather  a  strain.  Curious  things  faces — some  of  them 
seem  almost  human;  queer  to  think  that  each  be 
longs  to  someone  and  no  chance  to  get  rid  of  it;  sorry 
we're  not  in  the  mirror  industry;  never  thought  of  it 
before,  but  it  ought  to  be  profitable.  Happier  most 
of  us,  if  mirrors  never  had  been  invented.  Hope  all 
our  nice-natured  clients  will  have  the  best  kind  of  a 
time;  forgive  us  for  not  answering  letters;  we  are  too 
disillusioned  about  ourself  to  make  any  resolutions  to 
do  better.  We're  going  home  now;  on  the  way  we'll 
think  of  a  lot  of  nice  things  we  might  have  said, 
write  them  down  and  use  them  to-morrow.  Hope 
Dorothy  Gish  will  get  something  nice  in  her  stocking. 
Don't  make  the  obvious  retort.  Grand  time, 
Christmas! 


[153] 


IN  WEST  PHILADELPHIA 


/^LIMBING  aboard  car  No.  13— ominously 
\*S  labelled  "Mt.  Moriah" — I  voyaged  toward 
West  Philadelphia.  It  was  a  keen  day,  the  first 
snow  of  winter  had  fallen,  and  sparkling  gushes  of 
chill  swept  inward  every  time  the  side  doors  opened. 
The  conductor,  who  gets  the  full  benefit  of  this 
ventilation,  was  feeling  cynical,  and  seeing  his  blue 
hands  I  didn't  blame  him.  Long  lines  of  ladies,  fumb 
ling  with  their  little  bags  and  waiting  for  change, 
stepped  off  one  by  one  into  the  windy  eddies  of  the 
street  corners.  One  came  up  to  pay  her  fare  ten 
blocks  or  so  before  her  destination,  and  then  retired 
to  her  seat  again.  This  puzzled  the  conductor  and 
he  rebuked  her.  The  argument  grew  busy.  To  the 
amazement  of  the  passengers  this  richly  dressed 
female  brandished  lusty  epithets.  "You  Irish 
[154] 


In  West  Philadelphia 

mick!"  she  said.  (One  would  not  have  believed  it 
possible  if  he  had  not  heard  it.)  "That's  what  I 
am,  and  proud  of  it,"  said  he.  The  shopping 
solstice  is  not  all  fur  coats  and  pink  cheeks.  If  you 
watch  the  conductors  in  the  blizzard  season,  and  see 
the  slings  and  arrows  they  have  to  bear,  you  will  coin 
a  new  maxim.  The  conductor  is  always  right. 

It  is  always  entertaining  to  move  for  a  little  in  a 
college  atmosphere.  I  stopped  at  College  Hall  at 
the  University  and  seriously  contemplated  slipping  in 
to  a  lecture.  The  hallways  were  crowded  with 
earnest  youths  of  both  sexes — I  was  a  bit  surprised 
at  the  number  of  co-eds,  particularly  the  number 
with  red  hair — discussing  the  tribulations  of  their  lot. 
"Think  of  it,"  said  one  man,  "I'm  a  senior,  and 
carrying  twenty-three  hours.  Got  a  thesis  to  do, 
20,000  words."  On  a  bulletin  board  I  observed  the 
results  of  a  "General  Intelligence  Exam."  It  ap 
pears  that  1,770  students  took  part.  They  were 
listed  by  numbers,  not  by  names.  It  was  not  stated 
what  the  perfect  mark  would  .have  been;  the  highest 
grade  attained  was  159,  by  Mr.  (or  Miss?)  735.  The 
lowest  mark  was  23.  I  saw  that  both  440  and  1124 
got  the  mark  of  149.  If  these  gentlemen  (or  ladies) 
are  eager  to  play  off  the  tie,  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
arrange  a  deciding  competition  for  them.  The 
elaborate  care  with  which  the  boys  and  girls  ignore 
one  another  as  they  pass  in  the  halls  was  highly 
delightful,  and  reminded  me  of  exactly  the  same 

[155] 


Pipefuls 

thing  at  Oxford.  But  I  saw  the  possible  beginning 
of  true  romance  in  the  following  notice  on  one  of  the 
boards: 

WANTED:  Names  and  addresses  of  ten  nice 
American  university  students  who  must  remain  in 
Philadelphia  over  Christmas,  away  from  home,  to  be 
invited  to  a  Christmas  Eve  party  to  help  entertain 
some  Bryn  Mawr  College  girls  in  one  of  the  nicest 
homes  in  a  suburb  of  Philadelphia. 

Certainly  there  is  the  stage  set  for  a  short  story. 
Perhaps  not  such  a  short  one,  either. 

Naturally  I  could  not  resist  a  visit  to  the  library, 
where  most  of  the  readers  seemed  wholly  absorbed, 
though  one  student  was  gaping  forlornly  over  a 
volume  of  Tennyson.  I  found  an  intensely  amusing 
book,  "Who's  Who  in  Japan,"  a  copy  of  which 
would  be  a  valuable  standby  to  a  newspaper  para- 
grapher  in  his  bad  moments.  For  instance: 

SASAKI,  TETSUTARO:  One  of  the  highest  tax 
payers  of  Fukushima-ken,  President  of  the  Hongu 
Reeling  Partnership,  Director  of  the  Dai  Nippon 
Radium  Water  Co.;  brewer,  reeler;  born  Aug.,  1860. 

SAKURAI,  ICHISAKU  :  Member  of  the  Niigata  City 
Council;  Director  of  the  Niigata  Gas  Co.,  Niigata 
Savings  Bank.  Born  June,  1872,  Studied  Japanese 
and  Chinese  classics  and  arithmetic.  At  present 
also  he  connects  with  the  Niigata  Orphanage  and 
various  other  philanthropic  bodies.  Was  imprisoned 
by  acting  contrary  to  the  act  of  exposive  compound 
for  seven  years.  Recreations:  reading,  Western 
wine. 

[156] 


In  West  Philadelphia 

Relying  on  my  apparent  similarity  to  the  average 
undergrad,  I  plunged  into  the  sancta  of  Houston 
Hall  and  bought  a  copy  of  the  Punch  Bowl.  What 
that  sprightly  journal  calls  "A  little  group  of 
Syria's  thinkers"  was  shooting  pool.  The  big  fire 
places,  like  most  fireplaces  in  American  colleges, 
don't  seem  to  be  used.  They  don't  even  show  any 
traces  of  ever  having  been  used,  a  curious  contrast  to 
the  always  blazing  hearths  of  English  colleges.  The 
latter,  however,  are  more  necessary,  as  in  England 
there  is  usually  no  other  source  of  warmth.  A 
bitter  skirmish  of  winds,  carrying  powdered  snow 
dust,  nipped  round  the  gateways  of  the  dormitories 
and  Tait  MacKenzie's  fine  statue  of  Whitefield  stood 
sharply  outlined  against  a  cold  blue  sky.  I  lunched 
at  a  varsity  hash  counter  on  Spruce  Street  and 
bought  tobacco  in  a  varsity  drug  store,  where  a  New 
York  tailor,  over  for  the  day,  was  cajoling  students 
into  buying  his  "snappy  styles"  in  time  for  Christ 
mas.  There  is  no  more  interesting  game  than 
watching  a  lot  of  college  men,  trying  to  pick  out 
those  who  may  be  of  some  value  to  the  community  in 
future — the  scientists,  poets,  and  teachers  of  the  next 
generation.  The  well-dressed  youths  one  sees  in  the 
varsity  drug  stores  are  not  generally  of  this  type. 

The  Evans  School  of  Dentistry  at  Fortieth  and 
Spruce  is  a  surprising  place.  Its  grotesque  gar 
goyles,  showing  (with  true  medieval  humour)  the 
sufferings  of  tooth  patients,  are  the  first  thing  one 

[157] 


Pipefuls 

notices.  Then  one  finds  the  museum,  in  which  is 
housed  Doctor  Thomas  W.  Evans's  collection  of 
paintings  and  curios  brought  back  from  France. 
Unfortunately  there  seems  to  be  no  catalogue  of  the 
items,  so  that  there  is  no  way  of  knowing  what  inter 
esting  associations  belong  to  them.  But  most  sur 
prising  of  all  is  to  find  the  travelling  carriage  of  the 
Empress  Eugenie  in  which  she  fled  from  France  ia 
the  fatal  September  days  of  1870.  She  spent  her 
last  night  in  France  at  the  home  of  Doctor  Evans, 
and  there  is  a  spirited  painting  by  Dupray  showing 
her  leaving  his  house  the  next  morning,  ushered  into 
the  carriage  by  the  courtly  doctor.  The  old  black 
barouche,  or  whatever  one  calls  it,  seems  in  perfect 
condition  still,  with  the  empress's  monogram  on  the 
door  panel.  Only  the  other  day  we  read  in  the 
papers  that  the  remarkable  old  lady  (now  in  her 
ninety-fourth  year)  has  been  walking  about  Paris, 
revisiting  well-known  scenes.  How  it  would  sur 
prise  her  to  see  her  carriage  again  here  in  this 
University  building  in  West  Philadelphia.  The 
whole  museum  is  delightfully  French  in  flavour;  as 
soon  as  one  enters  one  seems  to  step  back  into  the 
curiously  bizarre  and  tragic  extravagance  of  the 
Second  Empire. 

One  passes  into  the  dignified  and  placid  residence 

section  of  Spruce  and  Pine  streets,  with  its  distinctly 

academic  air.     Behind  those  quiet  walls  one  suspects 

bookcases  and  studious  professors  and  all  the  de- 

[158] 


In  West  Philadelphia 

lightful  passions  of  the  mind.  On  Baltimore  Avenue 
the  wintry  sun  shone  white  and  cold;  in  Clark  Park, 
Charles  Dickens  wore  a  little  cap  of  snow,  and  Little 
Nell  looked  more  pathetic  than  ever.  There  is  a 
breath  of  mystery  about  Baltimore  Avenue.  What 
does  that  large  sign  mean,  in  front  of  a  house  near 
Clark  Park— THE  EASTERN  TRAVELLERS? 
Then  one  comes  to  the  famous  shop  of  S.  F.  Hiram, 
the  Dodoneaean  Shoemaker  he  calls  himself.  This 
wise  coloured  man  has  learned  the  advertising  ad 
vantages  of  the  unusual.  His  placard  reads : 

Originator  of  that  famous  Dobrupolyi  System  of 
repairing. 

When  one  enters  and  asks  to  know  more  about 
this  system,  he  points  to  another  placard,  which  says : 

It  assumes  the  nature  and  character  of  an  appella 
tive  noun,  and  carries  the  article  The  System. 

His  shop  contains  odd  curios  as  well  as  the  usual 
traffic  of  a  cobbler.  "The  public  loves  to  be  hood 
winked,'  he  adds  sagely. 


[159] 


HORACE  TRAUBEL 

WE  WAIT  with  particular  interest  to  hear  what 
Philadelphia  will  have  to  say  about  the  pass 
ing  of  Horace  Traubel.  Traubel  was  the  official  echo 
of  the  Great  Voice  of  Camden,and  in  his  obituary  one 
may  discern  the  vivacity  of  the  Whitman  tradition. 
This  is  a  matter  of  no  small  concern  to  the  curators  of 
the  Whitman  cult.  The  soul  of  Philadelphia  cannot 
be  kept  alive  by  conventions  and  statistics  alone. 
Such  men  as  Traubel  have  helped. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  rebels.     By  their  neckties 
you  may  know  them.     Walt  Whitman  was  of  the 
kind  that  wears  no  necktie  at  all.    Then  there  is  the 
lesser  sort,  of  which  Trau 
bel  was  one — the  rebel  who 
wears  a  flowing  black  bow 
tie  with  long  trailers. 
Elbert  Hubbard  wore  one 
of  these.     It  is  a  mild  re 
bellion   of   which   this   is 
symbol.     It  often  goes 
with  shell  spectacles. 
We  never  knew  Horace  Traubel,  though  he  was 
the  man  we  most  wanted  to  meet  when  we  came  to 
[160] 


Horace  Traubel 

Philadelphia.  We  have  heard  men  of  all  conditions 
speak  of  him  with  affection  and  respect.  He  was 
dedicated  from  boyhood  to  the  Whitman  cause. 
From  Walt  himself  he  caught  the  habit  of  talking 
about  Walt,  and  he  carried  it  on  with  as  much  gusto 
and  happiness  as  Walt  did.  Only  recently  he  said  in 
his  little  magazine  The  Conservator: 

When  I  was  quite  small  I  used  to  want  to  be  a 
great  man.  But  in  my  observations  of  the  old  man's 
better  than  great  way  of  meeting  the  gifts  as  well  as 
the  reverses  of  fate  I  didn't  want  to  be  a  great  man. 
I  only  wanted  to  stay  unannexed  to  any  institution 
as  he  was.  No  college  ever  decorated  him.  For  the 
best  of  reasons.  No  college  could.  He  could 
decorate  them. 

So  Traubel  remained  unannexed.  He  was  fired 
from  a  bank  because  he  happened  to  take  issue  in 
public  with  one  of  the  bank's  chief  depositors.  He 
floated  about  happily,  surrounded  by  young  Whit 
man  disciples,  carrying  on  his  guerrilla  for  what  his 
leader  called  the  "peerless,  passionate,  good  cause" 
of  human  democracy.  His  little  magazine  led  a 
precarious  life,  supported  by  good  friends.  His  pro 
test  against  iniquities  was  an  honest,  good-humoured 
protest. 

Horace  Traubel  will  be  remembered,  as  he  wished 
to  be  remembered,  as  the  biographer  of  Whitman. 
Whitman  also,  we  may  add,  wished  Traubel  to  be  so 
remembered.  In  his  careful  record  of  the  Camden 

[161] 


Pipefuls 

sage's  utterances  and  pulse-beats  he  approached  (as 
nearly  as  any  one)  the  devoted  dignity  of  Boswell. 
We  were  about  to  say  the  self-effacing  devotion  of 
Boswell;  but  the  beauty  of  biography  is  that  the 
biographer  cannot  wholly  delete  himself  from  the 
book.  One  is  always  curious  about  the  recording 
instrument.  When  we  see  a  particularly  fine 
photograph  our  first  question  is  always,  "What  kind 
of  camera  was  it  taken  with?  " 

It  seems  to  us — speaking  only  by  intuition,  for  we 
never  knew  him — that  Traubel  was  a  happy  man. 
He  was  untouched  by  many  of  the  harassing  ambi 
tions  that  make  the  lives  of  prosperous  men  miser 
able.  He  was  touched  in  boyhood  by  one  simple 
and  overmastering  motive — to  carry  on  the  Whit 
man  message  and  spread  it  out  for  the  younger 
world.  Much  of  the  dunnage  of  life  he  cast  over 
board.  He  was  too  good  a  Whitman  disciple  to 
estimate  success  in  the  customary  terms.  When  he 
left  his  job  in  the  bank  he  opened  an  account  in  the 
Walt  Whitman  philosophy — and  he  kept  a  healthy 
balance  there  to  the  end. 


[162] 


TALES  OF  TWO  CITIES 

II.  NEW  YORK 


THE  ANATOMY  OF  MANHATTAN 

SHE  is  the  only  city  whose  lovers  live  always  in  a 
mood  of  wonder  and  expectancy.  There  are 
others  where  one  may  sink  peacefully,  contentedly 
into  the  life  of  the  town,  affectionate  and  under 
standing  of  its  ways.  But  she,  the  woman  city,  who 
is  bold  enough  to  say  he  understands  her?  The 
secret  of  her  thrilling  and  inscrutable  appeal  has 
never  been  told.  How  could  it  be?  She  has  always 
been  so  much  greater  than  any  one  who  has  lived 
with  her.  (Shall  we  mention  Walt  Whitman  as  the 
only  possible  exception?  O.  Henry  came  very  near 
to  her,  but  did  he  not  melodramatize  her  a  little, 
sometimes  cheapen  her  by  his  epigrammatic  ap 
praisal,  fit  her  too  neatly  into  his  plot?  Kipling 
seemed  to  see  her  only  as  the  brutal,  heedless  wan 
ton.)  Truly  the  magic  of  her  spell  can  never  be 
exacted.  She  changes  too  rapidly,  day  by  day. 
Realism,  as  they  call  it,  can  never  catch  the  bound 
aries  of  her  pearly  beauty.  She  needs  a  mystic. 

No  city  so  challenges  and  debilitates  the  imagina 
tion.  Here,  where  wonder  is  a  daily  companion, 
desire  to  tell  her  our  ecstasy  becomes  at  last  only  a 
faint  pain  in  the  mind.  If  you  would  mute  a  poet's 

[165] 


Pipefuls 

lyre,  put  him  on  a  ferry  from  Jersey  City  some  silver 
April  morning;  or  send  him  aboard  at  Liberty  Street 
in  an  October  dusk.  Poor  soul,  his  mind  will  buzz 
(for  years  to  come)  after  adequate  speech  to  tell 
those  cliffs  and  scarps,  amethyst  and  lilac  in  the 
mingled  light;  the  clear  topaz  chequer  of  window 
panes;  the  dull  bluish  olive  of  the  river,  streaked  and 
crinkled  with  the  churn  of  the  screw !  Many  a  poet 
has  come  to  her  in  the  wooing  passion.  Give  him 
six  months,  he  is  merely  her  Platonist.  He  lives 
content  with  placid  companionship.  Where  are  his 
adjectives,  his  verbs?  That  inward  knot  of  amaze 
ment,  what  speech  can  unravel  it? 

Her  air,  when  it  is  typical,  is  light,  dry,  cool.  It  is 
pale,  it  is  faintly  tinctured  with  pearl  and  opal. 
Heaven  is  unbelievably  remote ;  the  city  itself  daring 
so  high,  heaven  lifts  in  a  cautious  remove.  Light 
and  shadow  are  fantastically  banded,  striped,  and 
patchworked  among  her  cavern  streets;  a  cool,  deep 
gloom  is  cut  across  with  fierce  jags  and  blinks  of 
brightness.  She  smiles  upon  man  who  takes  his 
ease  in  her  colossal  companionship.  Her  clean  soar 
ing  perpendiculars  call  the  eye  upward.  One 
wanders  as  a  botanist  in  a  tropical  forest.  That 
great  smooth  groinery  of  the  Pennsylvania  Station 
train  shed:  is  it  not  the  arching  fronds  of  iron  palm 
trees?  Oh,  to  be  a  botanist  of  this  vivid  jungle, 
spread  all  about  one,  anatomist  of  the  ribs  and  veins 
that  run  from  the  great  backbone  of  Broadway ! 
[166] 


Anatomy  of  Manhattan 

To  love  her,  one  thinks,  is  to  love  one's  fellows; 
each  of  them  having  some  unknown  share  in  her 
loveliness.  Any  one  of  her  streets  would  be  the 
study  and  delight  of  a  lifetime.  To  speak  at  random, 
we  think  of  that  little  world  of  brightness  and  sound 
bourgeois  cheer  that  spreads  around  the  homely 
Verdi  statue  at  Seventy-third  Street.  We  have  a 
faithful  affection  for  that  neighbourhood,  for  reasons 
of  our  own.  Within  a  radius,  thereabouts,  of  a 
quarter-mile  each  way,  we  could  live  a  year  and  learn 
new  matters  every  day.  They  call  us  a  hustling 
folk.  Observe  the  tranquil  afternoon  light  in  those 
brownstone  byways.  Pass  along  leisurely  Amster 
dam  Avenue,  the  region  of  small  and  genial  shops, 
Amsterdam  Avenue  of  the  many  laundries.  See  the 
children  trooping  upstairs  to  their  own  room  at  the 
St.  Agnes  branch  of  the  Public  Library.  See  the 
taxi  drivers,  sitting  in  their  cars  alongside  the  Verdi 
grass  plot  (a  rural  breath  of  new-mown  turf  sweet 
ening  the  warm,  crisp  air)  and  smoking  pipes.  Every 
one  of  them  is  to  us  as  fascinating  as  a  detective 
story.  What  a  hand  they  have  had  in  ten  thousand 
romances.  At  this  very  moment,  what  quaint 
and  many-stranded  destinies  may  hail  them  and 
drive  off?  But  there  they  sit,  placid  enough,  with  a 
pipe  and  the  afternoon  paper.  The  light,  fluttering 
dresses  of  enigmatic  fair  ones  pass  gayly  on  the 
pavement.  Traffic  flows,  divides,  and  flows  on,  a 
sparkling  river.  Here  is  that  mystery,  a  human 

[167] 


Pipefuls 

being,  buying  a  cigar.  Here  is  another  mystery 
asking  for  a  glass  of  frosted  chocolate.  Why  is  it 
that  we  cannot  accost  that  tempting  riddle  and  ask 
him  to  give  us  an  accurate  precis  of  his  life  to  date? 
And  that  red-haired  burly  sage,  he  who  used  to  bake 
the  bran  muffins  in  the  little  lunchroom  near  by, 
and  who  lent  us  his  Robby  Burns  one  night — what 
has  become  of  him? 

So  she  teases  us,  so  she  allures.  Sometimes,  on 
the  L,  as  one  passes  along  that  winding  channel 
where  the  walls  and  windows  come  so  close,  there  is 
a  felicitous  sense  of  being  immersed,  surrounded, 
drowned  in  a  great,  generous  ocean  of  humanity. 
It  is  a  fine  feeling.  All  life  presses  around  one,  the 
throb  and  the  problem  are  close,  are  close.  Who 
could  be  weary,  who  could  be  at  odds  with  life,  in 
such  an  embrace  of  destiny?  The  great  tall  sides  of 
buildings  fly  open,  the  human  hive  is  there,  beautiful 
and  arduous  beyond  belief.  Here  is  our  worship 
and  here  our  lasting  joy,  here  is  our  immortality  of 
encouragement.  Yes,  perhaps  O.  Henry  did  say  the 
secret  after  all:  "He  saw  no  longer  a  rabble,  but  his 
brothers  seeking  the  ideal." 


[168] 


VESEY  STREET 


THE  first  duty  of  the  conscientious  explorer  is  to 
study  his  own  neighbourhood,  so  we  set  off  to 
familiarize  ourself  with  Vesey  Street.  This  amiable 
byway  (perhaps  on  account  of  the  proximity  of 
Washington  Market)  bases  its  culture  on  a  solid 
appreciation  of  the  virtue  of  good  food,  an  admirable 
trait  in  any  street.  Upon  this  firm  foundation  it 
erects  a  seemly  interest  in  letters.  The  wanderer 
who  passes  up  the  short  channel  of  our  street,  from 
the  docks  to  St.  Paul's  churchyard,  must  not  be 

[169] 


Pipefuls 

misled  by  the  character  of  the  books  the  bibliothe- 
caries  display  in  their  windows.  Outwardly  they 
lure  the  public  by  Bob  IngersolPs  lectures,  Napo 
leon's  Dream  Book,  efficiency  encyclopaedias  and 
those  odd  and  highly  coloured  small  brochures  of 
smoking-car  tales  of  the  Slow  Train  Through 
Arkansaw  type.  But  once  you  penetrate,  you  may 
find  quarry  of  a  more  stimulating  kind.  For 
fifteen  cents  we  eloped  with  a  first  edition  of  Bun- 
ner's  "Love  in  Old  Cloathes,"  which  we  were  glad  to 
have  in  memory  of  the  "old  red  box  on  Vesey 
Street"  which  Bunner  immortalized  in  rhyme,  and 
which  still  stands  (is  it  the  same  box?)  by  the  rail 
ing  of  St.  Paul's.  Also,  even  nobler  treasure  to  our 
way  of  thinking,  did  we  not  just  now  find  (for  fifteen 
cents)  Hilaire  Belloc's  "Hills  and  the  Sea,"  that  en 
chanting  little  volume  of  essays,  which  we  are  almost 
afraid  to  read  again.  Belloc,  the  rogue — the  devil  is 
in  him.  Such  a  lusty  beguilery  moves  in  his  nimble 
prose  that  after  reading  him  it  is  hard  not  to  fall 
into  a  clumsy  imitation  of  his  lively  and  frolic  manner. 
There  is  at  least  one  essayist  in  this  city  who  fell 
subject  to  the  hilarious  Hilaire  years  ago.  It  is  an 
old  jape  but  not  such  a  bad  one:  our  friend  Murray 
Hill  will  never  return  to  the  status  quo  ante  Belloc. 
But  we  were  speaking  of  Vesey  Street.  It  looks 
down  to  the  water,  and  the  soft  music  of  steamship 
whistles  comes  tuning  on  a  cold,  gusty  air.  Thor 
oughly  mundane  little  street,  yet  not  unmindful  of 
[170] 


Vesey  Street 

matters  spiritual,  bounded  as  it  is  by  divine  Provi 
dence  at  one  end  (St.  Paul's)  and  by  Providence, 
R.  I.  (the  Providence  Line  pier)  at  the  other.  Per 
haps  it  is  the  presence  of  the  graveyard  that  has 
startled  Vesey  Street  into  a  curious  reversal  of  cus 
tom.  On  most  other  streets,  we  think,  the  numbers 
of  the  houses  run  even  on  the  south  side,  odd  on  the 
north.  But  just  the  opposite  on  Vesey.  You  will 
find  all  even  numbers  on  the  north,  odd  on  the  south. 
Still,  Wall  Street  errs  in  the  same  way. 

If  marooned  or  quarantined  on  Vesey  Street  a  man 
might  lead  a  life  of  gayety  and  sound  nourishment  for 
a  considerable  while,  without  having  recourse  to 
more  exalted  thoroughfares.  There  are  lodging 
houses  in  that  row  of  old  buildings  down  toward  the 
docks;  from  the  garret  windows  he  could  see  masts 
moving  on  the  river.  For  food  he  would  live  high 
indeed.  Where  will  one  see  such  huge  glossy  blue- 
black  grapes;  such  enormous  Indian  River  grape 
fruit;  such  noble  display  of  fish — scallops,  herrings, 
smelts,  and  the  larger  kind  with  their  dead  and 
desolate  eyes?  There  are  pathetic  rows  of  rabbits, 
frozen  stiff  in  the  bitter  cold  wind;  huge  white  hares 
hanging  in  rows;  a  tray  of  pigeons  with  their  irides 
cent  throat  feathers  catching  gleams  of  the  pale 
sunlight.  There  are  great  sacks  of  nuts,  barrels  of 
cranberries,  kegs  of  olive  oil,  thick  slabs  of  yellow 
cheese.  On  such  a  cold  day  it  was  pleasant  to  see  a 
sign  "Peanut  Roasters  and  Warmers.' 

[in] 


Pipefuls 

Passing  the  gloomy  vista  of  Greenwich  Street — 
under  the  "L"  is  one  of  those  mysterious  little  vents 
in  the  floor  of  the  street  from  which  issues  a  continual 
spout  of  steam — our  Vesey  grows  more  intellectual. 
The  first  thing  one  sees,  going  easterly,  is  a  sign: 
THE  TRUTH  SEEKER,  One  flight  Up.  The  tempta 
tion  is  almost  irresistible,  but  then  Truth  is  always 
one  flight  higher  up,  so  one  reflects,  what's  the  use? 
In  this  block,  while  there  is  still  much  doing  in  the 
way  of  food — and  even  food  in  the  live  state,  a 
window  full  of  entertaining  chicks  and  ducklings 
clustered  round  a  colony  brooder — another  of  Vesey 
Street's  interests  begins  to  show  itself.  Tools. 
Every  kind  of  tool  that  gladdens  the  heart  of  man  is 
displayed  in  various  shops.  One  realizes  more  and 
more  that  this  is  a  man's  street,  and  indeed  (except 
at  the  meat  market)  few  of  the  gayer  sex  are  to  be 
seen  along  its  pavements.  One  of  the  tool  shops  has 
open-air  boxes  with  all  manner  of  miscellaneous  odd 
ments,  from  mouse  traps  to  oil  cans,  and  you  may 
see  delighted  enthusiasts  poring  over  the  assortment 
with  the  same  professional  delight  that  ladies  show  at 
a  notion  counter.  One  of  the  tool  merchants,  how 
ever,  seems  to  have  weakened  in  his  love  of  city 
existence,  for  he  has  put  up  a  placard: 

WANTED  To  RENT 

Small  Farm 
Must  Have  Fruit  and  Spring  Water 

[172] 


Vesey  Street 

How  many  years  of  repressed  yearning  may  speak 
behind  that  modest  ambition! 

Our  own  taste  for  amusement  leads  us  (once 
luncheon  dispatched;  you  should  taste  Vesey 
Street's  lentil  soup)  to  the  second-hand  bookshops. 
Our  imagined  castaway,  condemned  to  live  on  Vesey 
Street  for  a  term  of  months,  would  never  need  to 
languish  for  mental  stimulation.  Were  he  devout, 
there  is  always  St.  Paul's,  as  we  have  said;  and  were 
he  atheist,  what  a  collection  of  Bob  IngersolTs 
essays  greets  the  faring  eye !  There  is  the  customary 
number  of  copies  of  "The  Pentecost  of  Calamity"; 
it  seems  to  the  frequenter  of  second-hand  bazaars  as 
though  almost  everybody  who  bought  that  lively 
booklet  in  the  early  days  of  the  war  must  have  sold  it 
again  since  the  armistice.  Much  rarer,  we  saw 
a  copy  of  "Hopkins's  Pond,"  that  little  volume  of 
agreeable  sketches  written  so  long  ago  by  Dr. 
Robert  T.  Morris,  the  well-known  surgeon,  and  if  we 
had  not  already  a  copy  which  the  doctor  inscribed  for 
us  we  would  certainly  have  rescued  it  from  this 
strange  exile. 

There  are  only  two  of  the  really  necessary  delights 
of  life  that  the  Vesey  Street  maroon  would  miss. 
There  is  no  movie,  there  are  no  doughnuts.  We  are 
wondering  whether  in  any  part  of  this  city  there  has 
sprung  up  the  great  doughnut  craze  that  has  ravaged 
Philadelphia  in  the  past  months.  As  soon  as 
prohibition  became  a  certainty,  certain  astute 

[173] 


Pipefuls 

merchants  of  the  Quaker  City  devoted  themselves  to 
inoculating  the  public  with  a  taste  for  these  humble 
fritters,  and  now  they  bubble  gayly  in  the  windows 
of  Philadelphia's  most  aristocratic  thoroughfare.  It 
is  really  a  startling  sight  to  see  Philadelphia  lining 
up  for  its  noonday  quota  of  doughnuts,  and  the 
merchants  over  there  have  devised  an  ingenious 
method  of  tempting  the  crowd.  A  funnel,  erected 
over  the  frying  sinkers,  carries  the  fragrant  fumes 
out  through  a  transom  and  gushes  it  into  the  open 
air,  so  that  the  sniff  of  doughnuts  is  perceptible  all 
down  the  block.  There  is  a  fortune  waiting  on 
Vesey  Street  for  the  man  who  will  establish  a  dough 
nut  foundry,  and  we  solemnly  pledge  our  own  appe 
tite  and  that  of  all  our  friends  toward  his  success.* 

At  its  upper  end,  perhaps  in  memory  of  the  van 
ished  Astor  House,  Vesey  Street  stirs  itself  into  a 
certain  magnificence,  devoting  its  window  space  to 
jewellery  and  silver-mounted  books  of  prayer.  At  this 
window  one  may  regulate  his  watch  at  a  clock  war 
ranted  by  Charles  Frodsham  of  84,  Strand,  to  whose 
solid  British  accuracy  we  hereby  pay  decent  tribute. 
Over  all  this  varied  scene  lifts  the  shining  javelin- 
head  of  the  Woolworth  Building,  seen  now  and  then 
in  an  almost  disbelieved  glimpse  of  sublimity;  and 
the  golden  Lightning  of  the  Telephone  and  Telegraph 
pinnacle,  waving  his  zigzag  brands  in  the  sun. 

*Since  this  was  written,  the  lack  has  been  supplied — on  Park  Row,  .just 
above  the  top  of  Vesey  Street;  probably  the  most  luxurious  doughnut 
shop  ever  conceived. 

[174] 


BROOKLYN  BRIDGE 


'\ 


A  WINDY  day,  one  would  have  said  in  the  dark 
channels  of  downtown  ways.  In  the  chop 
house  on  John  Street,  lunch-time  patrons  came 
blustering  in,  wrapped  in  overcoats  and  mufflers, 
with  something  of  that  air  of  ostentatious  hardiness 
that  men  always  assume  on  coming  into  a  warm 
room  from  a  cold  street.  Thick  chops  were  hissing 
on  the  rosy  grill  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  In  one  of 
the  little  crowded  stalls  a  man  sat  with  a  glass  of 
milk.  It  was  the  first  time  we  had  been  in  that  chop 
house  for  several  years  ...  it  doesn't  seem  the 


Pipefuls 

same.  As  Mr.  Wordsworth  said,  it  is  not  now  as  it 
hath  been  of  yore.  But  still, 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 

To  make  her  foster-child,  her  Inn-mate  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 

It's  a  queer  thing  that  all  these  imitation  beers  taste 
to  us  exactly  as  real  beer  did  the  first  time  we  tasted 
it  (we  were  seven  years  old)  and  shuddered.  "Two 
glasses  of  cider,"  we  said  to  the  comely  serving  maid. 
Alas 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive. 

There  is  a  nice  point  of  etiquette  involved  in  lunching 
in  a  crowded  chop  house.  Does  the  fact  of  having 
bought  and  eaten  a  moderate  meal  entitle  one  to  sit 
with  one's  companion  for  a  placid  talk  and  smoke 
afterward?  Or  is  one  compelled  to  relinquish  the 
table  as  soon  as  one  is  finished,  to  make  place  for 
later  comers?  These  last  are  standing  menacingly 
near  by,  gazing  bitterly  upon  us  as  we  look  over  the 
card  and  debate  the  desirability  of  having  some 
tapioca  pudding.  But  our  presiding  Juno  has 
already  settled  the  matter,  and  made  courtesy  a 
matter  of  necessity.  "These  gentlemen  will  be 
through  in  a  moment,"  she  says  to  the  new  candi 
dates.  Our  companion,  the  amiable  G W , 

was  just  then  telling  us  of  a  brand  of  synthetic 
[176] 


Brooklyn  Bridge 

whiskey  now  being  distilled  by  a  famous  tavern  of 
the  underworld.  The  superlative  charm  of  this 
beverage  seems  to  be  the  extreme  rigidity  it  imparts 
to  the  persevering  communicant.  "What  does  it 
taste  like?"  we  asked.  "Rather  like  gnawing 

furniture,"  said  G—   -  W .     "It's  like  a  long, 

healthy  draught  of  shellac.  It  seems  to  me  that  it 
would  be  less  trouble  if  you  offered  the  barkeep  fifty 
cents  to  hit  you  over  the  head  with  a  hammer.  The 
general  effect  would  be  about  the  same,  and  you 
wouldn't  feel  nearly  so  bad  in  the  morning." 

A  windy  day,  and  perishing  chill,  we  thought  as 
we  strolled  through  the  gloomy  caverns  and  crypts 
underneath  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  Those  twisted 
vistas  seen  through  the  archways  give  an  impression 
of  wrecked  Louvain.  A  great  bonfire  was  burning  in 
the  middle  of  the  street.  Under  the  Pearl  Street 
elevated  the  sunlight  drifted  through  the  girders  in  a 
lively  chequer,  patterning  piles  of  gray-black  snow 
with  a  criss-cross  of  brightness.  We  had  wanted  to 
show  our  visitor  Franklin  Square,  which  he,  as  a  man 
of  letters,  had  always  thought  of  as  a  trimly  gardened 
plot  surrounded  by  quiet  little  old-fashioned  houses 
with  brass  knockers,  and  famous  authors  tripping  in 
and  out.  As  we  stood  examining  the  fa$ade  of  Har 
per  and  Brothers,  our  friend  grew  nervous.  He  was 
carrying  under  his  arm  the  dummy  of  an  "export 
catalogue"  for  a  big  brass  foundry,  that  being  his 
line  of  work.  "They'll  think  we're  free  verse  poets 

[177] 


Pipefuls 

trying  to  get  up  courage  enough  to  go  in  and  submit 
a  manuscript,"  he  said,  and  dragged  us  away. 

A  windy  day,  we  had  said  in  the  grimy  recesses  of 
Cliff  and  Dover  streets.  (Approaching  this  senti 
ment  for  the  third  time,  perhaps  we  may  be  per 
mitted  to  accomplish  our  thought  and  say  what  we 
had  in  mind.)  But  up  on  the  airy  decking  of  the 

Brooklyn  Bridge,  where  we  repaired  with  G 

W for  a  brief  stroll,  the  afternoon  seemed  mild 

and  tranquil.  It  is  a  mistake  to  assume  that  the 
open  spaces  are  the  wrindier.  The  subway  is  New 
York's  home  of  ^Eolus,  and  most  of  the  gusts  that 
buffet  us  on  the  streets  are  merely  hastening  round  a 
corner  in  search  of  the  nearest  subway  entrance  so 
that  they  can  get  down  there  where  they  feel  they 
belong.  Up  on  the  bridge  it  was  plain  to  perceive 
that  the  March  sunshine  had  elements  of  strength. 
The  air  was  crisp  but  genial.  A  few  pedestrians 
were  wralking  resolutely  toward  the  transpontine 
borough;  the  cop  on  duty  stood  outside  his  little 
cabin  with  the  air  of  one  ungrieved  by  care.  Behind 
us  stood  the  high  profiles  of  the  lower  city, 
sharpened  against  the  splendidly  clear  blue  sky 
which  is  New  York's  special  blessing.  On  the  water 
moved  a  large  tug,  towing  barges.  Smoke  trailed 
behind  it  in  the  same  easy  and  comfortable  way  that 
tobacco  reek  gushes  over  a  man's  shoulder  when  he 
walks  across  a  room  puffing  his  pipe. 

The  bridge  is  a  curiously  delightful  place  to 
178 


Brooklyn  Bridge 

watch  the  city  from.  Walking  toward  the  central 
towers  seems  like  entering  a  vast  spider's  web.  The 
footway  between  the  criss-cross  cables  draws  one 
inward  with  a  queer  fascination,  the  perspective 
diminishing  the  network  to  the  eye  so  that  it  seems 
to  tighten  round  you  as  you  advance.  Even  when 
there  is  but  little  traffic  the  bridge  is  never  still.  It 
is  alive,  trembling,  vibrant,  the  foot  moves  with  a 
springy  recoil.  One  feels  the  lift  and  strain  of 
gigantic  forces,  and  looks  in  amazement  on  the  huge 
sagging  hawsers  that  carry  the  load.  The  bars  and 
rods  quiver,  the  whole  lively  fabric  is  full  of  a 
tremor,  but  one  that  conveys  no  sense  of  in- 
secureriess.  It  trembles  as  a  tree  whispers  in  a 
light  air. 

And  of  the  view  from  the  bridge,  it  is  too  sweeping 
to  carry  wholly  in  mind.  Best,  one  thinks,  it  is  seen 
in  a  v/inter  dusk,  when  the  panes  of  Manhattan's 
mountains  are  still  blazing  against  a  crystal  blue- 
green  sky,  and  the  last  flush  of  an  orange  sunset 
lingers  in  the  west.  Such  we  saw  it  once,  coming 
over  from  Brooklyn,  very  hungry  after  walking  in 
most  of  the  way  from  Jamaica,  and  pledged  in  our 
own  resolve  not  to  break  fast  until  reaching  a  certain 
inn  on  Pearl  Street  where  they  used  to  serve  banana 
omelets.  Dusk  simplifies  the  prospect,  washes 
away  the  lesser  units,  fills  in  the  foreground  with 
obliterating  shadow,  leaves  only  the  monstrous 
sierras  of  Broadway  jagged  against  the  vault. 

[1791 


Pipefuls 

It  deepens  this  incredible  panorama  into  broad 
sweeps  of  gold  and  black  and  peacock  blue  which  one 
may  file  away  in  memory,  tangled  eyries  of  shining 
windows  swimming  in  empty  air.  As  seen  in  the 
full  brilliance  of  noonday  the  bristle  of  detail  is  too 
bewildering  to  carry  in  one  clutch  of  the  senses. 
The  eye  is  distracted  by  the  abysses  between  build 
ings,  by  the  uneven  elevation  of  the  summits,  by  the 
jumbled  compression  of  the  streets.  In  the  vastness 
of  the  scene  one  looks  in  vain  for  some  guiding 
principle  of  arrangement  by  which  vision  can  focus 
itself.  It  is  better  not  to  study  this  strange  and 
disturbing  outlook  too  minutely,  lest  one  lose  what 
knowledge  of  it  one  has.  Let  one  do  as  the  veteran 
prowlers  of  the  bridge :  stroll  pensively  to  and  fro  in 
the  sun,  taking  man's  miracles  for  granted,  ex 
hilarated  and  content. 


[180] 


THREE  HOURS  FOR  LUNCH  •„ 

HUDSON  Street  has  a  pleasant  savour  of  food. 
It  resounds  with  the  dull  rumble  of  cruising 
drays,  which  bear  the  names  of  well-known  brands 
of  groceries;  it  is  faintly  salted  by  an  aroma  of  the 
docks.  One  sees  great  signs  announcing  cocoanut 
and  whalebone  or  such  unusual  wares;  there  is  a 
fine  tang  of  coffee  in  the  air  round  about  the  corner 
of  Beach  Street.  Here  is  that  vast,  massy  brick 
edifice,  the  New  York  Central  freight  station,  built 
1868,  which  gives  an  impression  of  being  about  to  be 
torn  down.  From  a  dilapidated  upper  window 
hangs  a  faded  banner  of  the  Irish  Republic.  At 
noontime  this  region  shows  a  mood  of  repose. 
Truckmen  loll  in  sunny  corners,  puffing  pipes,  with 
their  curved  freight  hooks  hung  round  their  necks. 
In  a  dark  smithy  half  a  dozen  sit  comfortably  round 
a  huge  wheel  which  rests  on  an  anvil,  using  it  as  a 
lunch  table.  Near  Canal  Street  two  men  are  loading 
ice  into  a  yellow  refrigerator  car,  and  their  practiced 
motions  are  pleasant  to  watch.  One  stands  in  the 
wagon  and  swings  the  big  blocks  upward  with  his 
tongs.  The  other,  on  the  wagon  roof,  seizes  the 
piece  deftly  and  drops  it  through  a  trap  on  top  of  the 

[181] 


Pipefuls 

car.  The  blocks  of  ice  flash  and  shimmer  as  they 
pass  through  the  sunshine.  In  Jim  O'Dea's  black 
smith  shop,  near  Broome  Street,  fat  white  horses  are 
waiting  patiently  to  be  shod,  while  a  pink  glow 
wavers  outward  from  the  forge. 

At  the  corner  of  Hudson  and  Broome  streets  we 
fell  in  with  our  friend  Endymion,  it  being  our  pur 
pose  to  point  out  to  him  the  house,  one  of  that 
block  of  old  red  dwellings  between  Hudson  and 
Varick,  which  Robert  C.  Holliday  has  described  in 
"Broome  Street  Straws,"  a  book  which  we  hope  is 
known  to  all  lovers  of  New  York  local  colour. 
Books  which  have  a  strong  sense  of  place,  and  are 
born  out  of  particular  streets — and  especially  streets 
of  an  odd,  rich,  and  well-worn  flavour — are  not  any 
too  frequent.  Mr.  Holliday's  Gissingesque  ap 
preciation  of  the  humours  of  landladies  and  all  the 
queer  fish  that  shoal  through  the  backwaters  of  New 
York  lodging  houses  makes  this  Broome  Street 
neighbourhood  exceedingly  pleasant  for  the  pilgrim 
to  examine.  It  was  in  Mr.  Holliday's  honour  that 
we  sallied  into  a  Hudson  Street  haberdashery,  just 
opposite  the  channel  of  Broome  Street,  and  adorned 
ourself  with  a  new  soft  collar,  also  having  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  Endymion  regretfully  wave  away 
some  gorgeous  mauve  and  pink  neckwear  that  the 
agreeable  dealer  laid  before  him  with  words  of 
encouragement.  We  also  stood  tranced  by  a 
marvellous  lithograph  advertising  a  roach  powder  in 
[18t] 


Three  Hours  for  Lunch 

a  neighbouring  window,  and  wondered  whether  Mr. 
Holliday  himself  could  have  drawn  the  original  in  the 
days  when  he  and  Walter  Jack  Duncan  lived  in 
garrets  on  Broome  Street  and  were  art  students 


together.  Certainly  this  picture  had  the  vigorous 
and  spirited  touch  that  one  would  expect  from  the 
draughting  wrist  of  Mr.  Holliday.  It  showed  a  very 
terrible  scene,  apparently  a  civil  war  among  the 
roaches,  for  one  army  of  these  agile  insects  was 
treasonously  squirting  a  house  with  the  commended 
specific,  and  the  horrified  and  stricken  inmates  were 
streaming  forth  and  being  carried  away  in  roach 
ambulances,  attended  by  roach  nurses,  to  a  neigh 
bouring  roach  cemetery.  All  done  on  a  large  and 
telling  scale,  with  every  circumstance  of  dismay  and 
reproach  on  the  faces  of  the  dying  blattidae.  Not 
even  our  candour,  which  is  immense,  permits  us  to 
reprint  the  slogan  the  manufacturer  has  adopted  for 

[183] 


Pipefuls 

his  poster:  those  who  go  prowling  on  Hudson 
Street  may  see  it  for  themselves. 

In  the  old  oyster  and  chop  house  just  below  Canal 
Street  we  enjoyed  a  very  agreeable  lunch.  To  this 
place  the  Broome  Street  garreteers  (so  Mr.  Holliday 
has  told  us)  used  to  come  on  days  of  high  prosperity 
when  some  cheque  arrived  from  a  publisher.  At 
that  time  the  tavern  kept  an  open  fireplace,  with  a 
bright  nest  of  coals  in  the  chilly  season;  and  there 
was  a  fine  mahogany  bar.  But  we  are  no  laudator  of 
acted  time:  the  fireplace  has  been  bricked  up,  it  is 
true;  but  the  sweet  cider  is  admirable,  and  as  for  the 
cheesecake,  we  would  back  it  against  all  the  Times 
Square  variety  that  Ben  De  Casseres  rattles  about. 
It  is  delightful  and  surprising  to  find  on  Hudson 
Street  an  ordinary  so  droll  and  Dickensish  in  at 
mosphere,  and  next  door  is  a  window  bearing  the 
sign  WALTER  PETER.  We  feel  sure  that  Mr. 
Holliday,  were  he  still  living  in  those  parts,  would 
have  cajoled  the  owner  into  changing  that  E  to  an  A. 

Our  stroll  led  us  north  as  far  as  Charlton  Street, 
which  the  geographers  of  Greenwich  Village  claim  as 
the  lower  outpost  of  their  domain.  Certainly  it  is  a 
pleasing  byway,  running  quietly  through  the  after 
noon,  and  one  lays  an  envious  eye  upon  the  demure 
brick  houses,  with  their  old-fashioned  doorways,  pale 
blue  shutters,  and  the  studio  windows  on  the  south 
ern  side.  At  the  corner  of  Varick  Street  is  a  large 
kouse  showing  the  sign,  "Christopher  Columbus 
[184J 


Three  Hours  for  Lunch 

University  of  America."  Macdougal  Street  gives 
one  a  distant  blink  of  the  thin  greenery  of  Wash 
ington  Square. 

An  unexpected  impulse  led  us  eastward  on  Grand 
Street,  to  revisit  Max  Maisel's  interesting  bookshop- 
We  had  never  forgotten  the  thrill  of  finding  this 
place  by  chance  one  night  when  prowling  toward 
Seward  Park.  In  bookshops  of  a  liberal  sort  we 
always  find  it  advisable  to  ask  first  of  all  for  a  copy 
of  Frank  Harris's  "The  Man  Shakespeare."  It  is 
hardly  ever  to  be  found  (unfortunately),  so  the 
inquiry  is  comparatively  safe  for  one  in  a  frugal 
mood;  and  it  is  a  tactful  question,  for  the  mention  of 
this  book  shows  the  bookseller  that  you  are  an  in 
telligent  and  understanding  kind  of  person,  and 
puts  intercourse  on  good  terms  at  once.  However, 
we  did  find  one  book  that  we  felt  we  simply  had  to 
have,  as  it  is  our  favourite  book  for  giving  away  to 
right-minded  people — "The  Invisible  Playmate," 
by  William  Canton.  We  fear  that  there  are  still 
lovers  of  children  who  do  not  know  this  book;  but  if 
so,  it  is  not  our  fault. 

Grand  Street  is  a  child  at  heart,  and  one  may 
watch  it  making  merry  not  only  along  the  pavement 
but  in  the  shop  windows.  Endymion's  gallant 
spirit  was  strongly  uplifted  by  this  lively  thorough 
fare,  and  he  strode  like  one  whose  heart  was  hitting 
on  all  six  cylinders.  Max  Maisel's  bookshop  alone 
is  enough  to  put  ons  in  a  seemly  humour.  But 

[185] 


Pipefuls 

then  one  sees  the  gorgeous  pink  and  green  allure 
ments  of  the  pastry  cooks'  windows,  and  who  can 
resist  those  little  lemon-flavoured,  saffron-coloured 
cakes,  which  are  so  thirst-compelling  and  send  one 
hastily  to  the  nearest  bar  for  another  beaker  of 
cider?  And  it  seems  natural  to  find  here  the 
oldest  toyshop  in  New  York,  where  Endymion 
dashed  to  the  upper  floor  in  search  of  juvenile 
baubles,  and  we  both  greatly  admired  the  tall,  dark, 
and  beauteous  damsel  wrho  waited  on  us  with  such 
patience  and  charity.  Endymion  by  this  time  was 
convinced  that  he  was  living  in  the  very  heart  and 
climax  of  a  poem;  he  became  more  and  more  unreal 
as  we  walked  along:  we  could  see  his  physical  out 
line  (tenuous  enough  at  best)  shimmer  and  blur  as  he 
became  increasingly  alcaic. 

Along  the  warm  crowded  pavement  there  suddenly 
piped  a  liquid,  gurgling,  chirring  whistle,  rising  and 
dropping  with  just  the  musical  trill  that  floats  from 
clumps  of  creekside  willows  at  this  time  of  year.  We 
had  passed  several  birdshops  on  our  walk,  and  sup 
posed  that  another  was  near.  A  song  sparrow,  was 
our  instant  conclusion,  and  we  halted  to  see  where 
the  cage  could  be  hung.  And  then  we  saw  our 
warbler.  He  was  little  and  plump  and  red-faced, 
with  a  greasy  hat  and  a  drooping  beer-gilded  mous 
tache,  and  he  wore  on  his  coat  a  bright  blue  peddler's 
license  badge.  He  shuffled  along,  stooping  over  a 
pouch  of  tin  whistles  and  gurgling  in  one  as  he  went. 
[186] 


Three  Hours  for  Lunch 

There's  your  poem,  we  said  to  Endymion — "The 
Song-Sparrow  on  Grand  Street." 

We  propose  to  compile  a  little  handbook  for 
truants,  which  we  shall  call  "How  to  Spend  Three 
Hours  at  Lunch  Time."  This  idea  occurred  to  us  on 
looking  at  our  watch  when  we  got  back  to  our 
kennel. 


[187] 


PASSAGE  FROM  SOME  MEMOIRS 

HOW  LONG  ago  it  seems,  that  spring  noonshine 
when  two  young  men  (we  will  call  them  Dactyl 
and  Spondee)  set  off  to  plunder  the  golden  bag  of 
Time.  These  creatures  had  an  oppressive  sense  that 
first  Youth  was  already  fled.  For  one  of  them,  in 
fact,  it  was  positively  his  thirtieth  birthday;  poor 
soul,  how  decrepitly  he  flitted  in  front  of  motor 
trucks.  As  for  the  other,  he  was  far  decumbent  in 
years,  quite  of  a  previous  generation,  a  perfect 
Rameses,  whose  senile  face  was  wont  to  crack  into 
wrinklish  mirth  when  his  palsied  cronies  called  him 
the  greatest  poet  born  on  February  2,  1886. 

It  was  a  day — well,  it  is  fortunate  that  some  things 
do  not  have  to  be  described.  Suppose  one  had  to 
explain  to  the  pallid  people  of  the  thither  moon  what 
a  noonday  sunshine  is  like  in  New  York  about  the 
Nones  of  May?  It  could  not  be  done  to  carry 
credence.  Let  it  be  said  it  was  a  Day,  and  leave  it 
so.  You  have  all  known  that  gilded  envelopment  of 
sunshine  and  dainty  air. 

These  pitiful  creatures  arose  from  the  subway  at 
Fourteenth  Street  and  took  the  world  in  their  right 
hands.  From  this  revolving  orb,  said  they,  they 
[188] 


Passage  from  Some  Memoirs 

would  squeeze  a  luncheon  hour  of  exquisite  satis 
factions.  They  gazed  sombrely  at  Union  Square, 
and  uttered  curious  reminiscences  of  the  venerable 
days  when  one  of  them  had  worked,  actually  toiled 
for  a  living,  upon  the  shores  of  that  expanse.  Ten 
years  had  passed  (yes,  at  least  ten — 0  edax  rerum!}. 
Upon  a  wall  these  observant  strollers  saw  a  tablet  to 
the  memory  of  William  Lloyd  Garrison.  Strange, 
said  they,  we  never  noticed  this  before.  Ah,  said 
one,  this  is  hallowed  ground.  It  was  near  here  that 
I  used  to  borrow  a  quarter,  the  day  before  pay-day, 
to  buy  my  lunch.  The  other  contributed  similar 
recollections.  And  now,  quoth  he,  I  am  grown  so 
prosperous  that  when  I  need  money  I  can't  afford  to 
borrow  less  than  two  hundred  dollars. 

They  lunched  (one  brushes  away  the  mist  of  time 
to  recall  the  details)  where  the  bright  sunlight  fell 
athwart  a  tablecloth  of  excellent  whiteness.  They 
ate  (may  one  be  precise  at  so  great  a  distance?) — yes, 
they  ate  broiled  mackerel  to  begin  with;  the  kind  of 
mackerel  called  (but  why?)  Spanish.  Whereupon 
succeeded  a  course  of  honeycomb  tripe,  which  moved 
Dactyl  to  quoting  Rabelais,  something  that 
Grangousier  had  said  about  tripes.  Only  by  these 
tripes  is  memory  supported  and  made  positive,  for  it 
was  the  first  time  either  had  tackled  this  dish. 
Concurrent  with  the  tripes,  one  inducted  the  other 
into  the  true  mystery  of  blending  shandygaff, 
explaining  the  first  doctrine  of  that  worthy  draught, 

[189] 


Pipefuls 

which  is  that  the  beer  must  be  poured  into  the 
beaker  before  the  ginger  ale,  for  so  arises  a  fatter  and 
lustier  bubblement  of  foam.  The  reason  whereof 
they  leave  no  testament.  While  this  portion  of 
the  meal  was  under  discussion  their  minds  moved 
free,  unpinioned,  with  airy  lightness,  over  all  manner 
of  topics.  It  seemed  no  effort  at  all  to  talk.  Ripe, 
mellow  with  long  experience  of  men  and  matters, 
their  comments  were  notable  for  wisdom  and 
sagacity.  The  waiter,  over 
hearing  shreds  of  their  dis 
course,  made  a  private  nota 
tion  to  the  effect  that  these 
were  Men  of  Large  Affairs. 
Then  they  embarked  upon 
some  salty  crackers,  enlivened 
with  Camembert  cheese  and 
green-gage  jam.  By  this  time 
they  were  touching  upon  relig 
ion,  from  which  they  moved 
lightly  to  the  poems  of  Louise 
Imogen  Guiney.  It  is  all  quite  distinct  as  one 
looks  back  upon  it. 

Issuing  upon  the  street,  Dactyl  said  something 
about  going  back  to  the  office,  but  the  air  and  sun 
light  said  him  nay.  Rather,  remarked  Spondee,  let 
us  fare  forward  upon  this  street  and  see  what 
happens.  This  is  ever  a  comely  doctrine,  adds  the 
chronicler.  They  moved  gently,  not  without  a  lilac 
[190J 


Passage  from  Some  Memoirs 

trailing  of  tobacco  fume,  across  quiet  stretches  of 
pavement.  In  the  blue  upwardness  stood  the  tower 
of  the  Metropolitan  Life  Building,  a  reminder  that 
humanity  as  a  whole  pays  its  premiums  with  decent 
regularity.  They  conned  the  nice  gradations  of  tint 
in  the  spring  foliage  of  Gramercy  Park.  They 
talked,  a  little  soberly,  of  thrift,  and  of  their  misspent 
years. 

Lexington  Avenue  lay  guileless  beneath  their 
rambling  footfalls.  At  the  corner  of  Twenty-second 
Street  was  a  crowd  gathered,  and  a  man  with  the 
customary  reverted  cap  in  charge  of  a  moving  picture 
machine.  A  swift  car  drew  up  before  the  large 
house  at  the  southeast  corner.  Thrill  upon  thrill: 
something  being  filmed  for  the  movies!  In  the  car, 
a  handsome  young  rogue  at  the  wheel,  and  who  was 
this  blithe  creature  in  shiny  leather  coat  and  leather 
cap,  with  crumpling  dark  curls  cascading  beneath  it? 
A  suspicion  tinkled  in  the  breast  of  Spondee,  in  those 
days  a  valiant  movie  fan.  Up  got  the  young  man, 
and  hopped  out  of  the  car.  Up  stood  the  blithe 
creature — how  neatly  breeched,  indeed,  a  heavenly 
forked  radish — and  those  shining  riding  boots!  She 
dismounted — lifted  down  (so  unnecessarily  it 
seemed)  by  the  rogue.  She  stood  there  a  moment 
and  Spondee  was  convinced.  DOROTHY  GISH,  said 
he  to  Dactyl.  Miss  Gish  and  her  escort  darted  into 
the  house,  the  camera  man  reeling  busily.  At  an 
upper  window  of  the  dwelling  a  white-haired  lady 

[1911 


Pipefuls 

was  looking  out,  between  lace  curtains,  with  a  sort  of 
horror.  Query,  was  she  part  of  the  picture,  or  only 
the  aristocratic  owner  of  the  house,  dismayed  at 
finding  her  home  suddenly  become  part  of  a  celluloid 
drama?  Spondee  had  always  had  a  soft  spot  in  his 
heart  for  Miss  Dorothy,  esteeming  her  a  highly 
entertaining  creature.  He  was  disappointed  in  the 
tranquil  outcome  of  the  scene.  He  had  hoped  to 
see  leaping  from  windows  and  all  manner  of 
hot  stuff.  Near  by  stood  a  coloured  groom  with 
a  horse.  The  observers  concluded  that  Miss  Gish 
was  to  do  a  little  galloping  shortly.  Dactyl  and 
Spondee  moved  away.  Spondee  quoted  a  poem  he 
had  once  written  about  Miss  Dorothy.  He  recol 
lected  only  two  lines : 

She  makes  all  the  rest  seem  a  shoal  of  poor  fish 
So  we  cast  our  ballot  for  Dorothy  Gish. 

Peering  again  into  the  dark  backward  and  abysm, 
it  seems  that  the  two  rejuvenated  gossips  trundled 
up  on  Lexington  Avenue  to  Alfred  Goldsmith's 
cheerful  bookshop.  Here  they  were  startled  to  hear 
Mr.  Goldsmith  cry:  "Well,  Chris,  here  are  some 
nice  bones  for  you."  One  of  these  visitors  assumed 
this  friendly  greeting  was  for  him,  but  then  it  was 
explained  that  Mr.  Goldsmith's  dog,  named  Christ 
mas,  was  feeling  seedy,  and  was  to  be  pampered. 
At  this  moment  in  came  the  postman  with  a  package 
of  books,  arrived  all  the  way  from  Canada.  One  of 
[192] 


Passage  from  Some  Memoirs 

these  books  was  "Salt  of  the  Sea,"  a  volume  of  tales 
by  Morley  Roberts,  and  upon  this  Spondee  fell  with 
a  loud  cry,  for  it  contained  "The  Promotion  of  the 
Admiral,"  being  to  his  mind  a  tale  of  great  virtue 
which  he  had  not  seen  in  several  years.  Dactyl, 
meanwhile,  was  digging  out  some  volumes  of  Gissing, 
and  on  the  faces  of  both  these  creatures  might  have 
been  seen  a  pleasant  radiation  of  innocent  cheer.  Mr. 
Goldsmith  also  exhibited  (it  is  still  remembered)  a 
beautiful  photo  of  Walt  Whitman,  which  entertained 
the  visitors,  for  it  showed  old  Walt  with  his  coat- 
sleeve  full  of  pins,  which  was  ever  Walt's  way. 

How  long  ago  it  all  seems.  Does  Miss  Dorothy 
still  act  for  the  pictures?  Does  Chris,  the  amiable 
Scots  terrier,  still  enjoy  his  bones?  Does  old 
Dactyl  still  totter  about  his  daily  tasks?  Queer  to 
think  that  it  happened  only  yesterday.  Well,  time 
runs  swift  in  New  York. 


[193] 


FIRST  LESSONS  IN  CLOWNING 


A  MEDLEY  of  crashing  music,  pungently  odd 
and  exhilarating  smells,  the  roaring  croon  of 
the  steam  calliope,  the  sweet  lingering  savour  of 
clown-white  grease  paint,  elephants,  sleek  barking 
seals,  trained  pigs,  superb  white  horses,  frolicking 
dogs,  exquisite  ladies  in  tights  and  spangles,  the 
pallid  Venuses  of  the   "living  statuary,"  a  whole 
[194] 


First  Lessons  in  Clowning 

jumble  of  incongruous  and  fantastic  glimpses,  mov 
ing  in  perfect  order  through  its  arranged  cycles — this 
is  the  blurred  and  ecstatic  recollection  of  an  amateur 
clown  at  the  circus. 

It  was  pay  day  that  afternoon  and  all  the  per 
formers  were  in  cheerful  humour.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  the  two  outsiders,  who  played  a  very  incon 
spicuous  part  in  the  vast  show,  were  so  gently 
treated.  Certainly  they  had  approached  the  Garden 
in  some  secret  trepidation.  They  had  had  visions 
of  dire  jests  and  grievous  humiliations:  of  finding 
themselves  suddenly  astride  the  bare  backs  of 
berserk  mules,  or  hoisted  by  blazing  petards,  or 
douched  with  mysterious  cascades  of  icy  water. 
Pat  Valdo  had  written :  "I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are 
going  to  clown  a  bit.  I  hope  you  both  will  enjoy  the 
experience."  To  our  overwrought  imaginations 
this  sounded  a  little  ominous.  What  would  Pat  and 
his  lively  confreres  do  to  us? 

We  need  not  have  feared.  Not  in  the  most  genial 
club  could  we  have  been  more  kindly  treated  than  in 
the  dressing  room  where  we  found  Pat  Valdo  opening 
his  trunk  and  getting  out  the  antic  costumes  he  had 
provided.  (The  eye  of  a  certain  elephant,  to  tell  the 
truth,  was  the  only  real  embarrassment  we  suffered. 
We  happened  to  stand  by  him  as  he  was  waiting  to 
go  on,  and  in  his  shrewd  and  critical  orb  we  saw  a 
complete  disdain.  He  spotted  us  at  once.  He 
knew  us  for  interlopers.  He  knew  that  we  were  not 

[195] 


Pipefuls 

a  real  clown,  and  his  eye  showed  a  spark  of  scorn. 
We  felt  shamed,  and  slunk  away.) 

A  liberal  coating  of  clown-white,  well  rubbed  into 
the  palms  before  applying;  a  rich  powdering  of 
talcum;  and  decorations  applied  by  Pat  Valdo  with 
his  red  and  black  paint-sticks — these  give  an  effect 
that  startles  the  amateur  when  he  considers  himself 
in  the  mirror.  Topped  with  a  skull-cap  of  white 
flannel  (on  which  perches  a  supreme  oddity  in  the 
way  of  a  Hooligan  hat)  and  enveloped  in  a  baggy 
Pierrot  garment — one  is  ready  to  look  about  and 
study  the  dressing  room,  where  our  fellows,  in  every 
kind  of  gorgeous  grotesquerie,  are  preparing  for  the 
Grand  Introductory  Pageant — followed  by  the 
"Strange  People."  (They  don't  call  them  Freaks 
any  more.)  Here  is  Johannes  Joseffson,  the  Ice 
landic  Gladiator,  sitting  on  his  trunk,  with  his  bare 
feet  gingerly  placed  on  his  slippers  to  keep  them  off 
the  dusty  floor  while  he  puts  on  his  wrestling  tights. 
As  he  bends  over  with  arched  back,  and  raises  one 
leg  to  insert  it  into  the  long  pink  stocking,  one  must 
admire  the  perfect  muscular  grace  of  his  thighs  and 
shoulders.  Here  is  the  equally  muscular  dwarf, 
being  massaged  by  a  friend  before  he  dons  his  pink 
frills  and  dashing  plumed  hat  and  becomes  Mile. 
Spangletti,  "the  marvel  equestrienne,  darling  of  the 
Parisian  boulevards."  Here  is  the  inevitable 
Charley  Chaplin,  and  here  the  dean  of  all  the  clowns, 
an  old  gentleman  of  seventy-four,  in  his  frolicsome 
[196] 


First  Lessons  in  Clowning 

costume,  as  lively  as  ever.  Here  is  a  trunk  in 
scribed  Australian  Woodchoppers,  and  sitting  on  it 
one  of  the  woodchoppers  himself,  a  quiet,  humor 
ous,  cultivated  gentleman  with  a  great  fund  of 
philosophy.  A  rumour  goes  the  rounds — as  it  does 
behind  the  scenes  in  every  kind  of  show.  "Do  you 
know  who  we  have  with  us  to-day?  I  see  one  of 
the  boxes  is  all  decorated  up."  "It's  Mrs.  Vincent 
Astor."  "Who's  she?"  interjects  the  Australian 
woodchopper,  satirically.  "It's  General  Wood." 
"Did  you  hear,  Wood  and  Pershing  are  here  to-day?" 
Charley  Chaplin  asserts  that  he  has  "a  good  gag" 
that  he's  going  to  try  out  to-day  and  see  how  it  goes. 
One  of  the  other  clowns  in  the  course  of  dressing 
comes  up  to  Pat  Valdo,  and  Pat  introduces  his  two 
pupils.  "Newspaper  men,  hey?"  says  the  latter. 
"What  did  you  tell  me  for?  I  usually  double-cross 
the  newspaper  men  when  they  come  up  to  do  some 
clowning,"  he  explains  to  us.  We  are  left  wondering 
in  what  this  double-crossing  consists.  Suddenly  they 
all  troop  off  down  the  dark  narrow  stairs  for  the 
triumphal  entry.  The  splendour  of  this  parade 
may  not  be  marred  by  any  clown  costumes,  so  the 
two  novices  are  left  upstairs,  peering  through  holes 
in  the  dressing-room  wall.  The  big  arena  is  all  an 
expanse  of  eager  faces.  The  band  strikes  up  a 
stirring  ditty.  A  wave  of  excitement  sweeps 
through  the  dingy  quarters  of  the  Garden.  The 
show  is  on,  and  how  delirious  it  all  is! 

[197] 


Pipefuls 

Downstairs,  the  space  behind  the  arena  is  a  fasci 
nating  jostle  of  odd  sights.  The  elephants  come 
swaying  up  the  runway  from  the  basement  and  stand 
in  line  waiting  their  turn.  Here  is  a  cage  of  trained 
bears.  In  the  background  stands  the  dogcatcher's 
cart,  attached  to  the  famous  kicking  mule.  From 
the  ladies'  dressing  quarters  come  the  aerial  human 
butterflies  in  their  wings  and  gauzy  draperies.  On 
the  wall  is  a  list  of  names,  Mail  Uncalled  For.  One 
of  the  names  is  "Toby  Hamilton."  That  must 
mean  old  Tody,  and  we  fear  the  letter  will  never  be 
called  for  now,  for  Tody  Hamilton,  the  famous  old 
Barnum  and  Bailey  press  agent,  who  cleaned  up 
more  "free  space"  than  any  man  who  ever  lived, 
died  in  1916.  Suddenly  appears  a  person  clad 
in  flesh  tights  and  a  barrel,  carrying  a  label  announc 
ing  himself  as  The  Common  People.  Someone 
thrusts  a  large  sign  into  the  hands  of  one  of  the 
amateur  clowns,  and  he  is  thrust  upon  the  arena,  to 
precede  the  barrelled  Common  People  round  the 
sawdust  circuit.  He  has  hardly  time  to  see  what 
the  sign  says — something  about  "On  Strike  Against 
$100  Suits."  The  amateur  clown  is  somewhat 
aghast  at  the  huge  display  of  friendly  faces.  Is  he  to 
try  to  be  funny?  Here  is  the  flag-hung  box,  and  he 
tries  to  see  who  is  in  it.  He  doesn't  see  either  Wood, 
Pershing,  or  Mrs.  Astor,  who  are  not  there;  but  a  lot 
of  wounded  soldiers,  who  smile  at  him  encouragingly. 
He  feels  better  and  proceeds,  finding  himself,  with  a 
[198] 


First  Lessons  in  Clowning 

start,  just  beneath  some  flying  acrobats  who  are 
soaring  in  air,  hanging  by  their  teeth.  Common 
People  shouts  to  him  to  keep  the  sign  facing  toward 
the  audience.  The  tour  is  made  without  palpable 
dishonour. 

Things  are  now  moving  so  fast  it  is  hard  to  keep 
up  with  them.  Pat  Valdo  is  dressed  as  a  prudish 
old  lady  with  an  enormous  bustle.  Escorted  by  the 
clown  policeman  and  the  two  amateurs,  Pat  sets  out, 
fanning  himself  demurely.  Hullo!  the  bustle  has 
detached  itself  from  the  old  lady,  but  she  proceeds, 
unconscious.  The  audience  shouts  with  glee. 
Finally  the  cop  sees  what  has  happened  and  screams. 
The  amateur  clowns  scream,  too,  and  one  of  them,  in  a 
burst  of  inspiration,  takes  off  his  absurd  hat  to  the 
bustle,  which  is  now  left  yards  behind.  But  Pat  is 
undismayed,  turns  and  beckons  with  his  hand. 
The  bustle  immediately  runs  forward  of  its  own 
accord  and  reattaches  itself  to  the  rear  of  the  skirt. 
You  see,  there  is  a  dwarf  inside  it.  The  two  amateur 
clowns  are  getting  excited  by  this  time  and  execute 
some  impromptu  tumbling.  One  tackles  the  other 
and  they  roll  over  and  over  desperately.  In  the 
scuffle  one  loses  both  his  hat  and  skull-cap  and 
flees  shamefast  from  the  scene.  It  is  asserted  by  our 
partner  that  "this  went  big."  He  swears  it  got  a 
laugh.  Pat  Valdo  hurries  off  to  prepare  for  his 
boomerang  throwing.  Pat  is  a  busy  man,  for  he  is 
not  only  a  clown,  but  he  and  Mrs.  Valdo  also  do 

[199] 


Pipefuls 

wonderful  stunts  of  their  own  on  Ring  Number 
One. 

And  there  are  moments  of  sheer  poetry,  too.  Into 
the  darkened  arena,  crossed  by  dazzling  shafts  of 
light,  speeds  a  big  white  motor  car.  Bird  Millman 
descends,  tossing  aside  her  cloak.  "A  fairy  on  a 
cobweb"  the  press  agents  call  her,  and  as  two  humble 
clowns  watch  entranced  through  the  peepholes  hi 
the  big  doors  the  phrase  seems  none  too  extravagant. 
See  her,  in  a  foam  of  short  fluffy  green  skirts,  twirl 
and  tiptoe  on  the  glittering  wire,  all  grace  and  slen- 
derness  and  agile  enchantment.  She  bows  in  the 
dazzle  of  light  and  kisses  her  hands  to  the  crowd. 
Then  she  hops  into  the  big  car  and  is  borne  back 
behind  the  scenes.  Once  behind  the  doors  her  gay 
vivacity  ceases.  She  sits,  wearily,  several  minutes, 
before  getting  out  of  the  car.  And  then,  later, 
comes  Mile.  Leitzel.  She,  like  all  the  other  stars,  is 
said  to  have  "amazed  all  Europe."  We  don't 
know  whether  Europe  is  harder  to  amaze  than 
America.  Certainly  no  one  could  be  more  admir 
ingly  astounded  than  the  amateur  clowns  gazing 
entranced  through  the  crack  of  the  doorway.  To 
that  nerve-tightening  roll  of  drums  she  spins  deliri 
ously  high  up  in  giddy  air,  floating,  a  tiny  human  pin- 
wheel,  in  a  shining  cone  of  light.  One  can  hear  the 
crowd  catch  its  breath.  She  walks  back,  all  smiles, 
while  her  inaid  trots  ahead  saying  something  un 
intelligible.  Her  tall  husband  is  waiting  for  her  at 
[200] 


First  Lessons  in  Clowning 

the  doorway.  He  catches  her  up  like  a  child  and 
carries  her  off,  limp  and  exhausted.  One  of  the 
clowns  (irreverent  creature)  makes  a  piteous  squawk 
and  begs  us  to  carry  him  to  his  dressing  room. 

A  trained  pig,  trotting  cheerfully  round  in  search  of 
tidbits,  is  retrieved  from  under  the  hooves  of  Mrs. 
Curtis's  horse,  which  is  about  to  go  out  and  dance. 
The  dogcatcher's  wagon  is  drawn  up  ready  to  rush 
forth,  and  the  trained  terrier  which  accompanies  it  is 
leaping  with  excitement.  He  regards  it  as  a  huge 
lark,  and  knows  his  cue  perfectly.  When  the  right 
time  comes  he  makes  a  dash  for  a  clown  dressed  as  an 
elderly  lady  and  tears  off  her  skirt.  One  of  the 
amateurs  was  allowed  to  ride  behind  the  kicking 
mule,  but  to  his  great  chagrin  the  mule  did  not  kick 
as  well  as  usual.  Here  are  Charley  Chaplin  and  some 
others  throwing  enormous  dice  from  a  barrel.  No 
matter  how  the  dice  are  thrown  they  always  turn  up 
seven.  Into  this  animated  gamble  the  amateur 
clown  enters  with  enjoyment.  All  round  him  the 
wildest  capers  are  proceeding.  The  double-ended 
flivver  is  prancing  about.  John  Barleycorn's  funeral 
procession  is  going  its  way.  "Give  me  plenty  of 
space,"  says  Charley  Chaplin  to  us,  "so  the  people 
can  watch  me."  We  do  so,  reverently,  for  Charley's 
antics  are  worth  watching.  We  make  a  wild  dash, 
and  plan  to  do  a  tumble  in  imitation  of  Charley's. 
To  our  disappointment  we  find  that  instead  of  sliding 
our  feet  dig  into  the  soft  sawdust,  and  the  projected 

[201] 


Pipefuls 

collapse  does  not  arrive.  Intoxicated  by  the  rich 
spice  of  circus  odours,  the  booming  calliope,  the 
galloping  horses,  we  hardly  know  what  we  are  doing 
half  the  time.  We  hear  Miss  May  Wirth,  the 
Wonder  Rider  of  the  World,  complaining  bitterly 
that  someone  got  in  front  of  her  when  she  was  doing 
her  particularly  special  stunt.  We  wonder  dubi 
ously  whether  we  were  the  guilty  one.  Alas,  it  is  all 
over  but  the  washing  up.  Pat  Valdo,  gentlest  of 
hosts,  is  taking  off  his  trick  hat  with  the  water  cistern 
concealed  in  it.  He  has  a  clean  towel  ready  for  his 
grateful  pupils. 

The  band  is  playing"  The  Star-Spangled  Banner," 
and  all  the  clowns,  in  various  stages  of  undress, 
stand  at  attention.  Our  little  peep  into  the  gay, 
good-hearted,  courageous,  and  extraordinary  world 
of  the  circus  is  over.  Pat  and  his  fellows  will  go  on, 
twice  a  day,  for  the  next  six  months.  It  takes 
patience  and  endurance.  But  it  must  be  some  con 
solation  to  know  that  nothing  else  in  the  world  gives 
half  as  much  pleasure  to  so  many  people. 


[202] 


HOUSE-HUNTING 

X" 


A  CURIOUS  vertigo  afflicts  the  mind  of  the 
house-hunter.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  suffi 
ciently  maddening  to  see  the  settled  homes  of  other 
happier  souls,  all  apparently  so  firmly  rooted  in  a 
warm  soil  of  contentment  while  he  floats,  an  un 
happy  sea-urchin,  in  an  ocean  of  indecision.  Further 
more,  how  confusing  (to  one  who  likes  to  feel  him 
self  somewhat  securely  established  in  a  familiar 
spot)  the  startling  panorama  of  possible  places  in 
which  he  visualizes  himself.  One  day  it  is  Great 
Neck,  the  next  it  is  Nutley;  one  day  Hollis,  the  next 

[203] 


Pipefuls 

Englewood;  one  day  Bronxville,  and  then  Garden 
City.  As  the  telephone  rings,  or  the  suasive  accents 
of  friendly  realtors  expound  the  joys  and  glories  of 
various  regions,  his  uneasy  imagination  flits  hop- 
pingly  about  the  compass,  conceiving  his  now 
vanished  household  goods  reassembled  and  implanted 
in  these  contrasting  scenes. 

Startling  scenarios  are  filmed  in  his  reeling  mind 
while  he  listens,  over  the  tinkling  wire,  to  the 
enumeration  of  rooms,  baths,  pantries,  mortgages, 
commuting  schedules,  commodious  closets,  open 
fireplaces,  and  what  not.  In  the  flash  and  corusca 
tion  of  thought  he  has  transported  his  helpless 
family  to  Yonkers,  or  to  Manhasset,  or  to  Forest 
Hills,  or  wherever  it  may  be,  and  tries  to  focus  and 
clarify  his  vision  of  what  it  would  all  be  like.  He 
sees  himself  (in  a  momentary  close-up)  commuting  on 
the  bland  and  persevering  Erie,  or  hastening  hotly 
for  a  Liberty  Street  ferry,  or  changing  at  Jamaica 
(that  mystic  ritual  of  the  Long  Island  brotherhood). 
For  an  instant  he  is  settled  again,  with  a  modest 
hearth  to  return  to  at  dusk  .  .  .  and  then  the  sor 
rowful  compliment  is  paid  him  and  he  wonders  how 
the  impression 'got  abroad  that  he  is  a  millionaire. 

There  is  one  consoling  aspect  of  his  perplexity, 
however,  and  that  is  the  friendly  intercourse  he  has 
with  high-spirited  envoys  who  represent  real  estate 
firms  and  take  him  voyaging  to  see  "properties"  in 
the  country.  For  these  amiable  souls  he  expresses 
1204] 


House-Hunting 

his  candid  admiration.  Just  as  when  one  contem 
plates  the  existence  of  the  doctors  one  knows,  one 
can  never  imagine  them  ill,  so  one  cannot  conceive 
of  the  friendly  realtor  as  in  any  wise  distressed  or 
grieved  by  the  problems  of  the  home.  There  is 
something  Olympian  about  them,  happy  creatures! 
They  deal  only  in  severely  "restricted"  tracts. 
They  have  a  stalwart  and  serene  optimism.  Odd 
as  it  seems,  one  of  these  friends  told  us  that  some 
people  are  so  malign  as  to  waste  the  time  of  real 
estate  men  by  going  out  to  look  at  houses  in  the 
country  without  the  slightest  intention  of  "acting." 
As  a  kind  of  amusement,  indeed !  A  harmless  way  of 
passing  an  afternoon,  of  getting  perhaps  a  free  motor 
ride  and  enjoying  the  novelty  of  seeing  what  other 
people's  houses  look  like  inside.  But  our  friend  was 
convinced  of  one  humble  inquirer's  passionate  sin 
cerity  when  he  saw  him  gayly  tread  the  ice  floes  of 
rustic  Long  Island  in  these  days  of  slush  and  slither. 
How  do  these  friends  of  ours,  who  see  humanity  in 
its  most  painful  and  distressing  gesture  (i.  e.,  when 
it  is  making  up  its  mind  to  part  with  some  money), 
manage  to  retain  their  fine  serenity  and  blitheness  of 
spirit?  They  have  to  contemplate  all  the  pathetic 
struggles  of  mortality,  for  what  is  more  pathetic 
than  the  spectacle  of  a  man  trying  to  convince  a  real 
estate  agent  that  he  is  not  really  a  wealthy  creature 
masking  millions  behind  an  eccentric  pose  of  hu 
mility?  Our  genial  adviser  Grenville  Kleiser,  who 

[205] 


Pipefuls 

has  been  showering  his  works  upon  us,  has  classified 
all  possible  mental  defects  as  follows: 

(a)  Too  easy  acquiescence 

(b)  A  mental  attitude  of  contradiction 

(c)  Undue  skepticism 

(d)  A  dogmatic  spirit 

(e)  Lack  of  firmness  of  mind 

(f)  A  tendency  to  take  extreme  views 

(g)  Love  of  novelty;  that  is,  of  what  is  foreign, 

ancient,  unusual,  or  mysterious. 

All  these  serious  weaknesses  of  judgment  may  be 
discerned,  in  rapid  rotation,  in  the  mind  of  the 
house-hunter.  It  would  be  only  natural,  we  think, 
if  the  real  estate  man  were  to  tell  him  to  go  away  and 
study  Mr.  Kleiser's  "How  to  Build  Mental  Power." 
In  the  meantime,  the  vision  of  the  home  he  had 
dreamed  of  becomes  fainter  and  fainter  in  the 
seeker's  mind — like  the  air  of  a  popular  song  he  has 
heard  whistled  about  the  streets,  but  does  not  know 
well  enough  to  reproduce.  How  he  envies  the  light- 
hearted  robins,  whose  house-hunting  consists  merely 
in  a  gay  flitting  from  twig  to  twig.  Yet,  even  in  his 
disturbance  and  nostalgia  of  spirit,  he  comforts 
himself  with  the  common  consolation  of  his  cronies 
— "Oh,  well,  one  always  finds  something" — and  thus 
(in  the  words  of  good  Sir  Thomas  Browne)  teaches 
his  haggard  and  unreclaimed  reason  to  stoop  unto 
the  lure  of  Faith. 
[206] 


LONG  ISLAND  REVISITED 

THE  anfractuosities  of  legal  procedure  having 
caused  us  to  wonder  whether  there  raally  were 
any  such  place  as  the  home  we  have  just  bought,  we 
thought  we  would  go  out  to  Salamis,  L.  I.,  and  have 
a  look  at  it.  Of  course  we  knew  it  had  been  there  a 
few  weeks  ago,  but  the  title  companies  do  confuse 
one  so.  We  had  been  sitting  for  several  days  in  the 
office  of  the  most  delightful  lawyer  in  the  world  (and 
if  we  did  not  fear  that  all  the  other  harassed  and 
beset  creatures  in  these  parts  would  instantly  rush  to 
lay  their  troubles  in  his  shrewd  and  friendly  bosom 
we  would  mention  his  name  right  here  and  do  a  little 
metrical  pirouette  in  his  honour) — we  had  been 
sitting  there,  we  say,  watching  the  proceedings, 
without  the  slightest  comprehension  of  what  was 
happening.  It  is  really  quite  surprising,  let  us  add, 
to  find  how  many  people  are  suddenly  interested  in 
some  quiet,  innocent-looking  shebang  nestling  off  in 
a  quiet  dingle  in  the  country,  and  how,  when  it  is  to 
be  sold,  they  all  bob  up  from  their  coverts  in  Flush 
ing,  Brooklyn,  or  Long  Island  City,  and  have  to  be 
"satisfied."  What  floods  of  papers  go  crackling 
across  the  table,  drawn  out  from  those  mysterious 

[207] 


Pipefuls 

brown  cardboard  wallets;  what  quaint  little  jests 
pass  between  the  emissaries  of  the  title  company 
and  the  legal  counsel  of  the  seller,  jests  that  seem 
to  bear  upon  the  infirmity  of  human  affairs  and 
cause  the  well-wishing  adventurer  to  wonder  whether 
he  had  ever  sufficiently  pondered  the  strange  tissue 
of  mortal  uncertainties  that  hides  behind  every 
earthly  venture  .  .  .  there  was,  for  instance, 
occasional  reference  to  a  vanished  gentleman  who 
had  once  crossed  the  apparently  innocent  proscenium 
of  our  estate  and  had  skipped,  leaving  someone  six 
thousand  dollars  to  the  bad;  this  ingenious  buccaneer 
was,  apparently,  the  only  one  who  did  not  have  to  be 
"satisfied."  At  any  rate,  we  thought  that  we,  who 
entered  so  modestly  and  obscurely  into  this  whole 
affair,  being  only  the  purchaser,  would  finally  satisfy 
ourself,  too,  by  seeing  if  the  property  was  still  there. 
Long  Island  and  spring — the  conjunction  gives  us 
a  particular  thrill.  There  are  more  beautiful  places 
than  the  Long  Island  flats,  but  it  was  there  that  we 
earned  our  first  pay  envelope,  and  it  was  there  that 
we  first  set  up  housekeeping;  and  as  long  as  we  live 
the  station  platform  of  Jamaica  will  move  us 
strangely — not  merely  from  one  train  to  another,  but 
also  inwardly.  There  is  no  soil  that  receives  a  more 
brimming  benison  of  sunshine  than  Long  Island  in 
late  April.  As  the  train  moves  across  the  plain  it 
seems  to  swim  in  a  golden  tide  of  light.  Billboards 
have  been  freshly  painted  and  announce  the  glories 
[208] 


Long  Island  Revisited 

of  phonographs  in  screaming  scarlets  and  purples, 
or  the  number  of  miles  that  divide  you  from  a 
Brooklyn  department  store.  Out  at  Hillside  the 
stones  that  demarcate  the  territory  of  an  old-fash 
ioned  house  are  new  and  snowily  whitewashed.  At 
Hollis  the  trees  are  a  cloud  of  violent  mustard-yellow 
(the  colour  of  a  safety-matchbox  label).  Magnolias 
(if  that  is  what  they  are)  are  creamy  pink.  Moving 
vans  are  bustling  along  the  road.  Across  the  wide 
fields  of  Bellaire  there  is  a  view  of  the  brown  woods 
on  the  ridge,  turning  a  faint  olive  as  the  leaves  gain 
strength.  Gus  Wuest's  roadhouse  at  Queens  looks 
inviting  as  of  old,  and  the  red-brown  of  the  copper 
beeches  reminds  one  of  the  tall  amber  beakers. 
Here  is  the  little  park  by  the  station  in  Queens,  the 
flag  on  the  staff,  the  forsythia  bushes  the  colour  of 
scrambled  eggs. 

Is  it  the  influence  of  the  Belmont  Park  race  track? 
There  seem  to  be,  in  the  smoking  cars,  a  number  of 
men  having  the  air  of  those  accustomed  to  associate 
(in  a  not  unprofitable  way)  with  horses.  Here  is 
one,  a  handsome  person,  who  holds  our  eye  as  a 
bright  flower  might.  He  wears  a  flowing  overcoat  of 
fleecy  fawn  colour  and  a  derby  of  biscuit  brown.  He 
has  a  gray  suit  and  joyful  socks  of  heavy  wool, 
yellow  and  black  and  green  in  patterned  squares 
which  are  so  vivid  they  seem  cubes  rather  than 
squares.  He  has  a  close-cut  dark  moustache,  his 
shaven  cheeks  are  a  magnificent  sirloin  tint,  his  chin 

[209] 


Pipefuls 

splendidly  blue  by  the  ministration  of  the  razor. 
His  shirt  is  blue  with  a  stripe  of  sunrise  pink,  and  the 
collar  to  match.  He  talks  briskly  and  humorously 
to  two  others,  leaning  over  in  the  seat  behind  them. 
As  he  argues,  we  see  his  brown  low  shoe  tapping  on 
the  floor.  One  can  almost  see  his  foot  think.  It 
pivots  gently  on  the  heel,  the  toe  wagging  in  air,  as 
he  approaches  the  climax  of  each  sentence.  Every 
time  he  drives  home  a  point  in  his  talk  down  comes 
the  whole  foot,  softly,  but  firmly.  He  relights  his 
cigar  in  the  professional  manner,  not  by  inhaling  as  he 
applies  the  match,  but  by  holding  the  burned  portion 
in  the  flame,  away  from  his  mouth,  until  it  has 
caught.  His  gold  watch  has  a  hunting  case;  when  he 
has  examined  it,  it  shuts  again  with  a  fine  rich  snap, 
which  we  can  hear  even  above  the  noise  of  the  car. 
On  this  early  morning  train  there  are  others 
voyaging  for  amusement.  Here  are  two  golfing 
zealots,  puffing  pipes  and  discussing  with  amazing 
persistence  the  minutiae  of  their  sport.  Their 
remarks  are  addressed  to  a  very  fashionable-looking 
curate,  whose  manners  are  superb.  Whether  he  is 
going  to  play  golf  we  know  not;  at  any  rate,  he 
smiles  mildly  and  politely  to  all  they  say.  Per 
haps  he  is  going  round  the  course  with  them,  in  the 
hope  of  springing  some  ecclesiastical  strategy  while 
they  are  softened  and  chastened  by  the  glee  of 
the  game.  The  name  of  their  Maker,  it  is  only 
fair  to  suspect,  has  more  than  once  been  mentioned 
[210] 


Long  Island  Revisited 

on  the  putting  green;  and  if  it  should  slip  out,  the 
curate  will  seize  the  cue  and  develop  it.  In  the 
meantime,  one  of  the  enthusiasts  (while  his  com 
panion  is  silenced  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  pipe)  is 
explaining  to  the  cloth  how  his  friend  plays  golf. 
"  I'll  tell  you  how  he  plays,"  he  says.  "  Imagine  him 
sitting  down  in  a  low  chair  and  swinging  a  club. 
Then  take  the  chair  away  and  he  still  keeps  the 
same  position.  That's  what  he  looks  like  when  he 
drives."  The  curate  smiles  at  this  and  prepares  his 
face  to  smile  with  equal  gentleness  when  the  other 
retorts. 

After  Floral  Park  the  prospect  becomes  more 
plainly  rural.  The  Mineola  trolley  zooms  along, 
between  wide  fields  of  tilled  brown  earth.  There  is 
an  occasional  cow;  here  and  there  a  really  old  barn 
and  farmhouse  standing,  incongruously,  among  the 
settlements  of  modern  kindling-wood  cottages;  and 
a  mysterious  agricultural  engine  at  work  with  a 
spinning  fly-wheel.  Against  the  bright  horizon 
stand  the  profiles  of  Garden  City:  the  thin  cathe 
dral  spire,  the  bulk  of  St.  Paul's  school,  the  white 
cupola  of  the  hotel.  The  tree-lined  vistas  of  Mineola 
are  placidly  simmering  in  the  morning  sun.  A 
white  dog  with  erect  and  curly  tail  trots  very  pur 
posefully  round  the  corner  of  the  First  National 
Bank.  We  think  that  we  see  the  spreading  leaves  of 
some  rhubarb  plants  in  a  garden;  and  there  are  some 
of  those  (to  us  very  enigmatic,  as  we  are  no  gardener) 

[211] 


Pipefuls 

little  glass  window  frames  set  in  the  soil,  as  though  a 
whole  house,  shamed  by  the  rent  the  owner  wanted 
to  charge,  had  sunk  out  of  sight,  leaving  only  a 
skylight. 

As  we  leave  East  Williston  we  approach  more  in 
teresting  country,  with  a  semblance  of  hills,  and 
wooded  thickets  still  brownly  tapestried  with  the  dry 
funeral  of  last  year's  leaves.  On  the  trees  the  new 
foliage  sways  in  little  clusters,  catching  the  light 
like  the  wings  of  perching  green  butterflies.  Some  of 
the  buds  are  a  coppery  green,  some  a  burning  red, 
but  the  prevailing  colour  is  the  characteristic  sulphur 
yellow  of  early  spring.  And  now  we  are  set  down  at 
Salamis,  where  the  first  and  most  surprising  im 
pression  is  of  the  unexpected  abundance  of  com 
petitive  taxicabs.  Having  reached  the  terminus  of 
our  space,  we  can  only  add  that  we  found  our  estate 
still  there — and  there  are  a  few  stalks  of  rhubarb 
surviving  from  an  earlier  plantation. 


212] 


ON  BEING  IN  A  HURRY 

X" TEW  YORK  is  a  perplexing  city  to  loaf  in. 
±\  (Walt  Whitman  if  he  came  back  to  Mannahatta 
would  soon  get  brain  fever.)  During  the  middle 
hours  of  the  day,  at  any  rate,  it  is  almost  impossible 
to  idle  with  the  proper  spirit  and  completeness. 
There  is  a  prevailing  bustle  and  skirmish  that 
"exerts  a  compulsion,"  as  President  Wilson  would 
say.  The  air  is  electric  and  nervous.  We  have 
often  tried  to  dawdle  gently  about  the  neighbour 
hood  of  the  City  Hall  in  the  lunch  hour,  to  let  the 
general  form  and  spirit  of  that  clearing  among  the 
cliffs  sink  into  our  mind,  so  that  we  could  get  some 
picture  of  it.  We  have  sat  under  a  big  brown  um 
brella,  to  have  our  shoes  shined,  when  we  had  noth 
ing  more  important  to  do  than  go  to  the  doughnut 
foundry  on  Park  Row  and  try  some  of  those  delect 
able  combinations  of  foods  they  have  there,  such  as 
sponge  cake  with  whipped  cream  and  chocolate 
fudge.  And  in  a  few  seconds  we  have  found  ourself 
getting  all  stirred  up  and  crying  loudly  to  the  artist 
that  we  only  wanted  a  once-over,  as  we  had  an 
important  appointment.  You  have  to  put  a  very 
heavy  brake  on  your  spirit  in  downtown  New  York 

[213] 


Pipefuls 

or  you  find  yourself  dashing  about  in  a  prickle  of 
excitement,  gloriously  happy  just  to  be  in  a  hurry, 
without  particularly  caring  whither  you  are  hasten 
ing,  or  why. 

One  of  the  odd  things  about  being  in  a  hurry  is 
that  it  seems  so  fiercely  important  when  you  yourself 
are  the  hurrier  and  so  comically  ludicrous  when  it  is 
someone  else.  We  see  our  friend  Artaxerxes  scorch 
ing  up  Church  Street  and  we  scream  with  laughter  at 
him,  because  we  know  perfectly  well  that  there  is 
absolutely  not  one  of  his  affairs  important  enough  to 
cause  him  to  buzz  along  like  that.  We  look  after 
him  with  a  sort  of  mild  and  affectionate  pity  for  a 
deluded  creature  who  thinks  that  his  concerns  are  of 
such  glorious  magnitude.  And  then,  a  few  hours 
later,  we  find  ourself  on 
a  subway  car  with  only 
ten  minutes  to  catch  the 
train  for  Salamis  at 
Atlantic  Avenue.  And 
what  is  our  state  of 
mind?  We  stand,  grit 
ting  our  teeth  (we  are 
too  excited  to  sit,  even  if 
there  were  a  seat)  and 
holding  our  watch.  The 
whole  tram,  it  seems  to  us,  is  occupied  by  invalids, 
tottering  souls  and  lumbago  cripples,  who  creep  off  at 
the  stations  as  though  five  seconds  made  not  the 
[  214  ] 


On  Being  in  a  Hurry 

slightest  difference.  We  glare  and  fume  and  could 
gladly  see  them  all  maced  in  sunder  with  battle- 
axes.  Nothing,  it  seems  to  us,  could  soothe  our 
bitter  hunger  for  haste  but  to  have  a  brilliant 
Lexington  Avenue  express  draw  up  at  the  platform 
with  not  a  soul  in  it.  Out  would  step  a  polite  guard, 
looking  at  his  watch.  "You  want  to  catch  a  train 
at  5:27?"  he  asks.  "Yes,  sir,  yes,  sir;  step  aboard." 
All  the  other  competitors  are  beaten  back  with 
knotted  thongs  and  we  are  ushered  to  a  seat.  The 
bells  go  chiming  in  quick  sequence  up  the  length  of 
the  train  and  we  are  off  at  top  speed,  flying  wildly 
past  massed  platforms  of  indignant  people.  We 
draw  up  at  Atlantic  Avenue,  and  the  solitary  pas 
senger,  somewhat  appeased,  steps  off.  "Compli 
ments  of  the  Interborough,  sir,"  says  the  guard. 

The  commuter,  urgently  posting  toward  the  5 :27, 
misses  the  finest  flavour  of  the  city's  life,  for  it  is  in 
the  two  or  three  hours  after  office  work  is  over  that 
the  town  is  at  her  best.  What  a  spry  and  smiling 
mood  is  shown  along  the  pavements,  particularly  on 
these  clear,  warm  evenings  when  the  dropping  sun 
pours  a  glowing  tide  of  soft  rosy  light  along  the  cross- 
town  streets.  There  is  a  cool  lightness  in  the  air; 
restaurants  are  not  yet  crowded  (it  is,  let  us  say,  a 
little  after  six)  and  beside  snowy  tablecloths  the 
waiters  stand  indulgently  with  folded  arms.  Every 
body  seems  in  a  blithe  and  spirited  humour.  Work 
is  over  for  the  day,  and  now  what  shall  we  do  for 

[215] 


Pipefuls 

amusement?  This  is  the  very  peak  of  living,  it 
seems  to  us,  as  we  sally  cheerily  along  the  street.  It 
is  like  the  beginning  of  an  O.  Henry  story.  The 
streets  are  fluttering  with  beautiful  women;  light 
summer  frocks  are  twinkling  in  the  busy  frolic  air. 
Oh,  to  be  turned  loose  at  the  corner  of  Broadway 
and  Thirty-second  Street  at  6:15  o'clock  of  a  June 
evening,  with  nothing  to  do  but  follow  the  smile  of 
adventure  to  the  utmost!  Thirty-second,  we  might 
add,  is  our  favourite  street  in  New  York.  It  sad 
dens  us  to  think  that  the  old  boarding  house  on  the 
corner  of  Madison  Avenue  is  vanished  now  and  all 
those  quaint  and  humorous  persons  dispersed.  We 
can  still  remember  the  creak  of  the  long  stairs 
and  the  clink  of  a  broken  slab  in  the  tiled  flooring  of 
the  hall  as  one  walked  down  to  the  dining  room. 

Affection  for  any  particular  street  largely  depends 
on  the  associations  it  has  accumulated  in  one's 
mind.  For  several  years  most  of  our  adventures  in 
New  York  centred  round  Thirty-second  Street;  but 
its  physique  has  changed  so  much  lately  that  it  has 
lost  some  of  its  appeal.  We  remember  an  old  stone- 
yard  that  used  to  stand  where  the  Pennsylvania 
Hotel  is  now,  a  queer  jumbled  collection  of  odd 
carvings  and  relics.  At  the  front  door  there  was  a 
bust  of  Pan  on  a  tall  pedestal,  which  used  to  face  us 
with  a  queer  crooked  grin  twice  a  day,  morning  and 
evening.  We  had  a  great  affection  for  that  effigy, 
and  even  wrote  a  little  piece  about  him  in  one  of  the 
[216] 


On  Being  in  a  Hurry 

papers,  for  which  we  got  about  $4  at  a  time  when  it 
was  considerably  needed.  We  used  to  say  to  our- 
self  that  some  day  when  we  had  a  home  in  the  coun 
try  we  would  buy  Pan  and  set  him  in  a  Long  Island 
garden  where  he  would  feel  more  at  home  than  in  the 
dusty  winds  of  Thirty-second  Street.  Time  went  on 
and  we  disappeared  from  our  old  haunts,  and  when 
we  came  back  Pan  had  vanished,  too.  You  may 
imagine  our  pleasure  when  we  found  him  again  the 
other  day  standing  in  front  of  a  chop  house  on 
Forty-fourth  Street. 

But  one  great  addition  to  the  delights  of  the 
Thirty-second  Street  region  is  the  new  and  shining 
white  tunnel  that  leads  one  from  the  Penn  Station 
subway  platform  right  into  the  heart  of  what  used 
(we  think)  to  be  called  Greeley  Square.  It  is  so 
dazzling  and  candid  in  its  new  tiling  that  it  seems 
rather  like  a  vast  hospital  corridor.  One  emerges 
through  the  Hudson  Tube  station  and  perhaps  sets 
one's  course  for  a  little  restaurant  on  Thirty-fifth 
Street  which  always  holds  first  place  in  our  affection. 
It  is  somewhat  declined  from  its  former  estate,  for 
the  upper  floors,  where  the  violent  orchestra  was  and 
the  smiling  little  dandruffian  used  to  sing  solos  when 
the  evening  grew  glorious,  are  now  rented  to  a  feather 
and  ostrich  plume  factory.  But  the  old  basement  is 
still  there,  much  the  same  in  essentials,  by  which  we 
mean  the  pickled  beet  appetizers,  the  minestrone 
soup,  the  delicious  soft  bread  with  its  brittle  crust, 

[217] 


Pipefuls 

and  the  thick  slices  of  rather  pale  roast  beef  swim 
ming  in  thin,  pinkish  gravy.  And  the  three  old 
French  waiters,  hardened  in  long  experience  of  the 
frailties  of  mortality,  smile  to  see  a  former  friend. 
One,  grinning  upon  us  rather  bashfully,  recalls  the 
time  when  there  was  a  hilarious  Oriental  wedding 
celebrating  in  a  private  room  upstairs  and  two  young 
men  insisted  on  going  in  to  dance  with  the  bride. 
He  has  forgiven  various  pranks,  we  can  see,  though 
he  was  wont  to  be  outraged  at  the  time.  "Getting 
very  stout,"  he  says,  beaming  down  at  us.  "You 
weigh  a  hundred  pounds  more  than  you  used  to." 
This  is  not  merely  cruel;  it  is  untrue.  We  refrain 
from  retorting  on  the  growth  of  his  bald  spot. 


[218] 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A  HUMAN  GLOBULE 


AS  A  matter  of  fact,  we  find  the  evening  sub- 
JLM.  way  jam  very  restful.  Being  neatly  rounded 
in  contour,  with  just  a  gentle  bulge  around  the 
equatorial  transit,  we  have  devised  a  very  satis 
factory  system.  We  make  for  the  most  crowded  car 
we  can  find,  and  having  buffeted  our  way  in,  we  are 
perfectly  serene.  Once  properly  wedged,  and  pro 
vided  no  one  in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  is  doing 
anything  with  any  garlic  (it  is  well  to  avoid  the 
vestibules  if  one  is  squeamish  in  that  particular)  we 
lift  our  feet  off  the  floor,  tuck  them  into  the  tail 
of  our  overcoat,  and  remain  blissfully  suspended  in 
midair  from  Chambers  Street  to  Ninety-sixth.  The 
pressure  of  our  fellow-passengers,  powerfully  im 
pinging  upon  the  globular  perimeter  we  spoke  of, 
keeps  us  safely  elevated  above  the  floor.  We  have 
had  some  leather  stirrups  sewed  into  the  bottom  of 
our  overcoat,  in  which  we  slip  our  feet  to  keep  them 
from  dangling  uncomfortably.  Another  feature  of 
our  technique  is  that  we  always  go  into  the  car  with 
our  arms  raised  and  crossed  neatly  on  our  chest,  so 
that  they  will  not  be  caught  and  pinioned  to  our 
flanks.  In  that  position,  once  we  are  gently  nested 

[219] 


Pipefuls 

among  the  elastic  mass  of  genial  humanity,  it  is 
easy  to  draw  out  from  our  waistcoat  pocket  our  copy 
of  Boethius's  "Consolations  of  Philosophy"  and 
really  get  in  a  little  mental  improvement.  Or,  if  we 
have  forgotten  the  book,  we  gently  droop  our  head 
into  our  overcoat  collar,  lay  it  softly  against  the 
shoulder  of  the  tall  man  who  is  always  handy,  and 
pass  into  a  tranquil  nescience. 

The  subway  is  a  great  consolation  to  the  philos 
opher  if  he  knows  how  to  make  the  most  of  it.  Think 
how  many  people  one  encounters  and  never  sees 
again. 


[220] 


NOTES  ON  A  FIFTH  AVENUE  BUS 


FAR  down  the  valley  of  the  Avenue  the  traffic 
lights  wink  in  unison,  green,  yellow,  red, 
changing  their  colours  with  well-drilled  promptness. 
It  is  cold:  a  great  wind  flaps  and  tangles  the  flags; 
the  tops  of  the  buses  are  almost  empty.  That  brisk 
April  air  seems  somehow  in  key  with  the  mood  of  the 
Avenue — hard,  plangent,  glittering,  intensely  ma 
terial.  It  is  a  proud,  exultant,  exhilarating  street;  it 
fills  the  mind  with  strange  liveliness.  A  magnificent 
pomp  of  humanity — what  a  flux  of  lacquered  motors, 
what  a  twinkling  of  spats  along  the  pavements! 
On  what  other  of  the  world's  great  highways  would 
one  find  churches  named  for  the  material  of  which 
they  are  built? — the  Brick  Church,  the  Marble 
Church  I  It  is  not  a  street  for  loitering — there  is  an 
eager,  ambitious  humour  in  its  blood;  one  walks  fast, 
revolving  schemes  of  worldly  dominion.  Only  on 

[221] 


Pipefuls 

the  terrace  in  front  of  the  Public  Library  is  there  any 
temptation  for  tarrying  and  consideration.  There 
one  may  pause  and  study  the  inscription — But  Above 
All  Things  Truth  Beareth  Away  the  Victory  .  .  . 
of  course  the  true  eloquence  of  the  words  lies  in  the 
But.  Much  reason  for  that  But,  implying  a  previous 
contradiction — on  the  Avenue's  part?  Sometimes, 
pacing  vigorously  in  that  river  of  lovely  pride  and 
fascination,  one  might  have  suspected  that  other 
things  bore  away  the  victory — spats,  diamond  neck 
laces,  smoky  blue  furs  nestling  under  lovely  chins. 
.  .  .  Hullo!  here  is  a  sign,  "Headquarters  of  the 
Save  New  York  Committee."  Hum!  Save  from 
what?  There  was  a  time  when  the  great  charm  of 
New  York  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  didn't  want  to  be 
saved.  Who  is  it  that  the  lions  in  front  of  the  Public 
Library  remind  us  of?  We  have  so  often  pondered. 
Let's  see:  the  long  slanting  brow,  the  head  thrown 
back,  the  haughty  and  yet  genial  abstraction — to  be 
sure,  it's  Vachel  Lindsay! 

We  defy  the  most  resolute  philosopher  to  pass 
along  the  giddy,  enticing,  brilliant  vanity  of  that 
superb  promenade  and  not  be  just  a  little  moved  by 
worldly  temptation. 


SUNDAY  MORNING 

IT  WAS  a  soft,  calm  morning  of  sunshine  and 
placid  air.  Clear  and  cool,  it  was  "a  Herbert 
Spencer  of  a  day,"  as  H.  G.  Wells  once  remarked. 
The  vista  of  West  Ninety-eighth  Street,  that  en 
gaging  alcove  in  the  city's  enormous  life,  was  all 
freshness  and  kempt  tranquillity,  from  the  gray  roof 
of  the  old  training  ship  at  the  river  side  up  to  the  tall 
red  spire  near  Columbus  Avenue.  This  pinnacle, 
which  ripens  to  a  fine  claret  colour  when  suffused  with 
sunset,  we  had  presumed  to  be  a  church  tower,  but 
were  surprised,  on  exploration,  to  find  it  a  standpipe 
of  some  sort  connected  with  the  Croton  water 
system. 

Sunday  morning  in  this  neighbourhood  has  its  own 
distinct  character.  There  is  a  certain  air  of  lux 
urious  ease  in  the  picture.  One  has  a  feeling  that  in 
those  tall  apartment  houses  there  are  a  great  many 
ladies  taking  breakfast  in  negligee.  They  are  wear 
ing  (if  one  may  trust  the  shop  windows  along  Broad 
way)  boudoir  caps  and  mules.  Mules,  like  their 
namesakes  in  the  animal  world,  are  hybrid  things, 
the  offspring  of  a  dancing  pump  and  a  bedroom 
slipper.  They  are  distinctly  futile,  but  no  matter, 

[223] 


Pipefuls 

no  matter.  Wearing  mules,  however,  is  not  a  mere 
vanity;  it  is  a  form  of  physical  culture,  for  these 
skimpish  little  things  are  always  disappearing  under 
the  bed,  and  crawling  after  them  keeps  one  slender. 
Again  we  say,  no  matter.  This  is  no  concern  of  ours. 
Near  Broadway  a  prosperous  and  opulently  tail 
ored  costume  emerges  from  an  apartment  house:  cut 
away  coat,  striped  trousers,  very  long  pointed  patent 
leather  shoes  with  lilac  cloth  tops.  Within  this 
gear,  we  presently  see,  is  a  human  being,  in  the 
highest  spirits.  "All  set!"  he  says,  joining  a  group 
of  similars  waiting  by  a  shining  limousine.  Among 
these,  one  lady  of  magnificently  millinered  aspect, 
and  a  smallish  man  in  very  new  and  shiny  riding 
boots,  of  which  he  is  grandly  conscious.  There  are 
introductions.  "Mr.  Goldstone,  meet  Mrs.  Silver 
ware."  They  are  met.  There  is  a 
flashing  of  eyes.  Three  or  four  silk 
hats  simultaneously  leap  into  the 
shining  air,  are  flourished  and  re 
placed.  The  observer  is  aware  of 
the  prodigious  gayety  and  excite 
ment  of  life.  All  climb  into  the 
car  and  roll  away  down  Broadway. 
All  save  the  little  man  in  riding 
boots.  He  is  left  on  the  sidewalk, 
gallantly  waving  his  hand.  Come, 
we  think,  he  is  going  riding.  A  satiny  charger 
waits  somewhere  round  the  corner.  We  will  follow 
[224] 


Sunday  Morning 

and  see.     He  slaps  his  hunting  crop  against  his  glo 
rious  boots,  which  are  the  hue  of  quebracho  wood. 
No;  to  our  chagrin,  he  descends  into  the  subway. 

We  sit  on  the  shoeshining  stand  on  Ninety-sixth 
Street,  looking  over  the  Sunday  papers.  Very  odd, 
in  the  adjoining  chairs  men  are  busily  engaged 
polishing  shoes  that  have  nobody  in  them,  not 
visibly,  at  any  rate.  Perhaps  Sir  Oliver  is  right 
after  all.  While  we  are  not  watching,  the  beaming 
Italian  has  inserted  a  new  pair  of  laces  for  us.  Long 
afterward,  at  bedtime,  we  find  that  he  has  threaded 
them  in  that  unique  way  known  only  to  shoe  mer 
chants  and  polishers,  by  which  every  time  they  are 
tied  and  untied  one  end  of  the  lace  gets  longer  and 
the  other  shorter.  Life  is  full  of  needless  com 
plexities.  We  descend  the  hill.  Already  (it  is  9 :45 
A.  M.)  men  are  playing  tennis  on  the  courts  at  the 
corner  of  West  End  Avenue.  A  great  wagon 
crammed  with  scarlet  sides  of  beef  comes  stumbling 
up  the  hill,  drawn,  with  difficulty,  by  five  horses. 

When  we  get  down  to  the  Ninety-Sixth  Street  pier 
we  see  the  barque  Windrush  lying  near  by  with  the 
airy  triangles  of  her  rigging  pencilled  against  the 
sky,  and  look  amorously  on  the  gentle  curve  of  her 
strakes  (if  that  is  what  they  are).  We  feel  that  it 
would  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  off  soundings,  greeting 
the  bounding  billow,  not  to  say  the  bar-room  stew 
ard;  and  yet,  being  a  cautious  soul  of  reservations  all 
compact,  we  must  admit  that  about  the  time  we  got 

[225] 


Pipefuls 

abreast  of  New  Dorp  we  would  be  homesick  for  our 
favourite  subway  station. 

The  pier,  despite  its  deposit  of  filth,  bales  of  old 
shoes,  reeking  barrels,  scows  of  rubbish,  sodden 
papers,  boxes  of  broken  bottles  and  a  thick  paste  of 
dust  and  ash-powder  everywhere,  is  a  happy  loung 
ing  ground  for  a  few  idlers  on  Sunday  morning.  A 
large  cargo  steamer,  the  Eclipse,  lay  at  the  wharf, 
standing  very  high  out  of  the  water.  Three  small 
boys  were  watching  a  peevish  old  man  tending  his 
fishing  lines,  fastened  to  wires  with  little  bells  on 
them.  "What  do  you  catch  here?"  we  said.  Just 
then  one  of  the  little  bells  gave  a  cracked  tinkle 
and  the  angler  pulled  up  a  small  fish,  wriggling 
briskly,  about  three  inches  long.  This  seemed  to 
anger  him.  He  seemed  to  consider  himself  in  some 
way  humiliated  by  the  incident.  He  grunted.  One 
of  the  small  boys  was  tactful.  "Oh,  gee!"  he  said. 
"Sometimes  you  catch  fish  that  long,"  indicating  a 
length  which  began  at  about  a  yard  and  diminished 
to  about  eighteen  inches  as  he  meditated.  "I  don't 
know  what  kind  they  are,"  he  said.  "They're  not 
trouts,  but  some  other  kind  of  fish." 

This  started  the  topic  of  relative  sizes,  always  fas 
cinating  to  small  boys.  "That's  a  pretty  big  boat," 
said  one,  craning  up  at  the  tall  stem  of  the  Eclipse. 
"Oh,  gee,  that  ain't  big!"  said  another.  "You 
ought  to  see  some  of  the  Cunard  boats,  the  Olympic 
or  the  Baltic." 
[226] 


Sunday  Morning 

On  Riverside  Drive  horseback  riders  were  canter 
ing  down  the  bridlepath,  returning  from  early  out 
ings.  The  squirrels,  already  grossly  overfed,  were 
brooding  languidly  that  another  day  of  excessive 
peanuts  was  at  hand.  Behind  a  rapidly  spinning 
limousine  pedalled  a  grotesquely  humped  bicyclist, 
using  the  car  as  a  pacemaker.  He  throbbed  fiercely 
just  behind  the  spare  tire,  with  his  face  bent  down 
into  a  rich  travelling  cloud  of  gasoline  exhaust.  An 
odd  way  of  enjoying  one's  self!  Children  were  com 
ing  out  in  troops,  with  their  nurses,  for  the  morning 
air.  Here  was  a  little  boy  with  a  sailor  hat,  and  on 
the  band  a  gilt  legend  that  was  new  to  us.  Instead 
of  the  usual  naval  slogan,  it  simply  said  Democracy. 
This  interested  us,  as  later  in  the  day  we  saw  an 
other,  near  the  goldfish  pond  in  Central  Park.  Be 
hind  the  cashier's  grill  of  a  Broadway  drug  store  the 
good-tempered  young  lady  was  reading  Zane  Grey. 
"I  love  his  books,"  she  said,  "but  they  make  me 
want  to  break  loose  and  go  out  West." 


[227] 


VENISON  PASTY 


riHHE  good  old  days  are  gone,  we  have  been 
JL  frequently  and  authoritatively  assured;  and 
yet,  sitting  in  an  agreeable  public  on  William  Street 
where  the  bright  eye  of  our  friend  Harold  Phillips 
discerned  venison  pasty  on  the  menu,  and  listening  to 
a  seafaring  man  describe  a  recent  "blow"  off 
Hatteras  during  which  he  stood  four  hours  up  to  his 
waist  in  the  bilges,  and  watching  our  five  jocund 
companions  dismiss  no  less  than  twenty-one  beakers 
[228] 


Venison  Pasty 

of  cider,  we  felt  no  envy  whatever  for  the  ancients 
of  the  Mermaid  Tavern.  After  venison  pasty, 
and  feeling  somewhat  in  the  mood  of  Robin  Hood 
and  Friar  Tuck,  we  set  off  with  our  friend  Endymion 
for  a  stroll  through  the  wilderness.  The  first  adven 
ture  of  note  that  we  encountered  was  the  curb  market 
on  Broad  Street,  where  we  stood  entranced  at  the 
merry  antics  of  the  brokers.  This,  however,  is  a  spec 
tacle  that  no  layman  can  long  contemplate  and  still 
deem  himself  sane.  That  sea  of  flickering  fingers,  the 
hubbub  of  hoarse  cries,  and  the  enigmatic  gestures  of 
youths  framed  in  the  open  windows  gave  an  impres 
sion  of  something  fierce  and  perilous  happening. 
Endymion,  still  deeming  himself  in  Sherwood  Forest, 
insisted  that  this  was  the  abode  of  the  Sheriff  of 
Nottingham.  "Stout  deeds  are  toward!"  he  cried. 
"These  villain  wights  have  a  damsel  imprisoned  in 
yonder  keep!"  With  difficulty  we  restrained  him 
from  pressing  to  the  rescue  of  the  lady  (for  indeed  we 
could  see  her,  comely  enough,  appearing  now  and 
then  at  one  of  the  windows;  and  anon  disappearing, 
abashed  at  the  wild  throng).  But  gradually  we 
realized  that  no  such  dire  matter  was  being  trans 
acted,  for  the  knights,  despite  occasional  spasms  of 
hot  gesticulating  fury,  were  mild  and  meant  her  no 
ill.  One,  after  a  sudden  flux  of  business  concerning 
(it  seemed)  85  shares  of  Arizona  Copper,  fell  sud 
denly  placid,  and  was  eating  chocolate  ice  cream  from 
a  small  paper  plate.  Young  gallants,  wearing  hats 

[229] 


Pipefuls 

trimmed  with  variegated  brightly  coloured  stuffs 
(the  favours  of  their  ladies,  we  doubted  not),  were 
conferring  together,  but  without  passion  or  rancour. 

We  have  a  compact  with  our  friend  Endymion  that 
as  soon  as  either  of  us  spends  money  for  anything  not 
strictly  necessary  he  must  straightway  return  to  the 
office.  After  leaving  the  curb  market,  we  found  our 
selves  in  a  basement  bookshop  on  Broadway,  and 
here  Endymion  fell  afoul  of  a  copy  of  Thomas 
Hardy's  "Wessex  Poems,"  illustrated  by  the  author. 
Piteously  he  tried  to  persuade  us  that  it  was  a  matter 
of  professional  advancement  to  him  to  have  this 
book;  moreover,  he  said,  he  had  just  won  five  dollars 
at  faro  (or  some  such  hazard)  so  that  he  was  not 
really  spending  money  at  all;  but  we  countered  all 
his  sophisms  with  slogging  rhetoric.  He  bought  the 
book,  and  so  had  to  return  to  the  office  in  disgrace. 

We  fared  further,  having  a  mind  to  revisit  the  old 
Eastern  Hotel,  down  by  the  South  Ferry,  of  whose 
cool  and  dusky  bar-room  we  had  pleasant  memories 
in  times  gone  by;  but  we  found  to  our  distress  that 
this  also,  like  many  more  of  our  familiar  landmarks, 
is  a  prey  to  the  house-wrecker,  and  is  on  its  way  to 
become  an  office  building.  On  our  way  back  up 
Broadway  it  occurred  to  us  to  revisit  what  we  have 
long  considered  one  of  the  most  impressive  temples 
in  our  acquaintance,  the  lobby  of  the  Telephone  and 
Telegraph  Building,  on  Dey  Street.  Here,  passing 
by  the  enticing  little  terrace  with  brocaded  chairs 
[230] 


Venison  Pasty 

and  soft  lights  where  two  gracious  ladies  sit  to  in 
terview  aspiring  telephone  debutantes,  one  stands  in 
a  dim  golden  glow,  among  great  fluted  pillars  and 
bowls  of  softly  burning  radiance  swung  (like  censers) 
by  long  chains.  Occasionally  there  is  an  airy  flutter, 
a  bell  clangs,  bronze  doors  slide  apart,  and  an 
elevator  appears,  in  charge  of  a  chastely  uniformed 
priestess.  Lights  flash  up  over  this  dark  little  cave 
which  stands  invitingly  open:  UP,  they  say,  LOCAL 
1-13.  The  door-sill  of  the  cave  shines  with  a  row  of 
golden  beads  (small  lights,  to  guide  the  foot) — it  is 
irresistible.  There  is  an  upward  impulse  about  the 
whole  place:  the  light  blossoms  upward  from  the 
hanging  translucent  shells:  people  step  gently  in, 
the  doors  close,  they  are  not  seen  again.  It  is  the 
temple  of  the  great  American  religion,  Going  Up. 
The  shining  gold  stars  in  the  ceiling  draw  the  eye 
aloft.  The  temptation  is  too  great.  We  step  into 
the  little  bronze  crypt,  say  "Thirteen"  at  a  venture, 
and  are  borne  softly  and  fluently  up.  Then,  of 
course,  we  have  to  come  down  again,  past  the 
wagons  of  spring  onions  on  Fulton  Street,  and  back 
to  the  office. 


[231] 


GRAND  AVENUE,  BROOKLYN 

WE  HAVE  always  been  a  strong  partisan  of 
Brooklyn,  and  when  we  found  ourself,  in 
company  with  Titania,  set  down  in  the  middle  of 
a  golden  afternoon  with  the  vista  of  Grand  Avenue 
before  us,  we  felt  highly  elated.  Just  how  these  two 
wayfarers  chanced  to  be  deposited  in  that  quiet 
serenity,  so  far  from  their  customary  concerns,  is 
not  part  of  the  narrative. 

There  are  regions  of  Brooklyn,  we  have  always  felt, 
that  are  too  good  to  be  real.  Placid  stretches  of 
streets,  with  baby  carriages  simmering  in  the  sun, 
solid  and  comfortable  brownstone  houses  exhaling 
a  prosperous  condition,  of  life,  tranquil  old-fashioned 
apothecaries'  shops  without  soda  fountains,  where 
one  peers  in  and  sees  only  a  solitary  customer  turn 
ing  over  the  pages  of  a  telephone  book.  It  is  all 
rather  like  a  chapter  from  a  story,  and  reminds  us  of 
a  passage  in  "The  Dynamiter"  where  some  un 
troubled  faubourgs  of  London  are  winningly  de 
scribed. 

Titania  was  wearing  a  little  black  hat  with  green 
feathers.     She  looked  her  best,  and  was  not  unaware 
of  it.    Our  general  plan,  when  destiny  suddenly 
[232] 


Grand  Avenue,  Brooklyn 

plumps  us  into  the  heart  of  Brooklyn,  is  to  make  our 
way  toward  Fulton  Street,  which  is  a  kind  of  life 
line.  Once  on  Fulton  Street  we  know  our  way. 
Moreover,  Fulton  Street  has  admirable  second 
hand  bookshops.  Nor  do  we  ever  forget  that  it  was 
at  the  corner  of  Fulton  and  Cranberry  streets  that 
"Leaves  of  Grass"  was  set  up,  in  the  spring  of  1855, 
Walt  doing  a  good  deal  of  the  work  himself.  The 
only  difficulty  about  getting  to  Fulton  Street  is  that 
people  will  give  you  such  contradictory  instruction. 
One  will  tell  you  to  go  this  way;  the  next  will  point 
in  the  opposite  direction.  It  is  as  though  Brooklyn- 
ites  suspect  the  presence  of  a  stranger,  and  do  not 
wish  their  sacred  secrets  to  be  discovered.  There  is 
a  deep,  mysterious  freemasonry  among  the  residents 
of  this  genial  borough. 

At  the  corner  of  Grand  and  Greene  avenues  we 
thought  it  well  to  ask  our  way.  A  lady  was  stand 
ing  on  the  corner,  lost  in  pleasant  drowse.  April 
sunshine  shimmered  all  about:  trees  were  bustling 
into  leaf,  a  wagonload  of  bananas  stood  by  the  curb 
and  the  huckster  sang  a  gay,  persuasive  madrigal. 
We  approached  the  lady,  and  Titania  spoke  gently: 

"Can  you  tell  me "     The  lady  screamed,  and 

leaped  round  in  horror,  her  face  stricken  with  fearful 
panic.  She  gasped  and  tottered.  We  felt  guilty 
and  cruel.  "We  were  not  meditating  an  attack," 
we  said,  "but  just  wanted  to  ask  you  the  way  to 
Fulton  Street."  Perhaps  the  poor  soul's  nerves 

[233] 


Pipefuls 

were  unstrung,  for  she  gave  us  instruction  that 
we  felt  instinctively  to  be  wrong.  Had  we  gone  as 
she  said  (we  now  see  by  studying  the  map)  we  would 
have  debouched  into  Wallabout  Bay.  But  un 
doubtedly  it  was  the  protective  instinct  of  the 
Brooklynite,  on  guard  before  strangers.  Is  there 
some  terrific  secret  in  Brooklyn  that  all  residents 
know  about  but  which  must  never  be  revealed  to 
outsiders? 

Making  a  mental  note  not  to  speak  too  suddenly 
at  the  next  encounter,  the  two  cheerful  derelicts 
drifted  along  the  sunny  coast  of  Grand  Avenue.  A 
shining  and  passionless  peace  presided  over  the 
streets.  A  gentle  clop-clop  of  hooves  came  trotting 
down  the  way :  here  was  a  man  driving  a  white  horse 
in  a  neat  rubber-tired  buggy  without  a  top.  He 
leaned  back  and  smiled  to  himself  as  he  drove  along. 
Life  did  not  seem  to  be  the  same  desperate  venture 
it  appears  round  about  Broadway  and  Wall  Street. 
Who  can  describe  the  settled  amiability  of  those 
rows  of  considerable  brown  houses,  with  their  heavy 
oak  doors,  their  pots  of  daisies  on  the  stoop,  their 
clear  window  panes,  and  now  and  then  the  face  of  a 
benignant  grandmother  peeping  from  behind  lace 
curtains.  The  secret  of  Brooklyn,  perhaps,  is  con 
tentment,  and  its  cautious  residents  do  not  want  the 
rest  of  us  to  know  too  much  about  it,  lest  we  all 
flock  over  there  in  swarms. 

We  then  came  to  the  bustle  of  Fulton  Street, 
[234] 


Grand  Avenue,  Brooklyn 

which  deserves  a  book  in  itself.  Some  day  we  want 
lo  revisit  a  certain  section  of  Fulton  Street  where  (if 
we  remember  rightly)  a  rotisserie  and  a  certain  book 
store  conspire  to  make  one  of  the  pleasantest  haunts 
in  our  experience.  We  don't  know  exactly  what  the 
secret  of  Brooklyn  may  be,  but  we  are  going  to  spend 
some  time  over  there  this  spring  and  lie  in  wait  for  it. 


[235 


ON  WAITING  FOR  THE  CURTAIN  TO  GO  UP 


WE  OFTEN  wonder  whether  people  are  really 
as  human  as  they  appear,  or  is  it  only  our 
imagination?     Everybody,    we    suggest,    thinks   of 
others   as   being   excessively   human,   with  all   the 
frailties  and  crotchets  appertaining  to  that  curious 
[236] 


On  Waiting  for  the  Curtain 

condition.  But  each  of  us  also  (we  are  not  dog 
matic  on  this  matter)  seems  to  regard  himself  as 
existing  on  a  detached  plane  of  observation,  exempt 
(save  in  moments  of  vivid  crisis)  from  the  strange 
whims  of  humanity  en  masse. 

For  example,  consider  the  demeanour  of  people  at 
a  theatre  while  waiting  for  the  curtain  to  go  up.  To 
note  the  censoriousness  with  which  they  study  each 
other,  one  concludes  that  each  deems  himself  (her 
self)  singularly  blessed  as  the  repository  of  human 
correctness. 

Incidentally,  why  is  it  that  one  gets  so  thirsty 
at  the  theatre?  We  never  get  thirsty  at  the  movies, 
or  not  nearly  so  thirsty.  The  other  evening  we 
drank  seven  paper  cups  full  of  water  in  the  inter 
missions  of  a  four-act  play. 

The  presence  of  people  sitting  behind  one  is  the 
reason  (we  fancy)  for  a  great  deal  of  the  queer 
antics  that  take  place  while  one  is  waiting  for  the 
curtain  to  rise,  particularly  when  it  is  twenty  min 
utes  late  in  going  up  as  it  was  at  a  certain  theatre 
the  other  evening.  People  behind  one  have  a  hor 
rible  advantage.  One  knows  that  they  can  hear 
everything  you  say,  unless  you  whisper  it  in  a 
furtive  manner,  which  makes  them  suspect  things  far 
worse  than  any  one  would  be  likely  to  say  in  a 
Philadelphia  theatre,  except,  of  course,  on  the  stage. 
The  fact  that  you  know  they  can  overhear  you,  and 
intend  to  do  so,  leads  one  on  to  make  the  most  out- 

[237] 


Pipefuls 

rageous,  cynical,  and  scoffish  remarks,  particularly 
to  denounce  with  fury  a  play  that  you  may  be  en  joy- 
joy  ing  quite  passably  well.  All  over  the  house  you 
will  hear  (after  the  first  act)  men  saying  to  their 
accompanying  damsels,  "How  outrageously  clumsy 
that  act  was.  I  can't  conceive  how  the  director 
let  it  get  by."  Now  they  only  say  this  because 
they  think  it  will  make  the  people  behind  feel 
ashamed  for  having  enjoyed  such  a  botch.  But  does 
it?  The  people  in  the  row  behind  immediately  be 
gin  to  praise  the  play  vigorously,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  people  behind  them;  and  in  a  minute  you  see  the 
amusing  spectacle  of  the  theatre  cheering  and 
damning  by  alternate  rows. 

Here  and  there  you  will  see  a  lady  whispering 
something  to  her  escort,  and  will  notice  how  ladies 
always  look  backward  over  a  lily  shoulder  while 
whispering.  They  want  to  see  what  effect  this 
whispering  will  have  on  the  people  behind.  There 
is  a  deep-rooted  feud  between  every  two  rows  in  an 
audience.  The  front  row,  having  nobody  to  hate 
(except  possibly  the  actors),  take  it  out  in  speculating 
why  on  earth  anybody  can  want  to  sit  in  the  boxes, 
where  they  can  see  nothing. 

What  the  boxes  think  about  we  are  not  sure. 
We  never  sat  in  a  box  except  at  a  burlicue. 

And  then  a  complete  essay  might  be  written  on 
the  ads  in  the  theatre  program — what  high-spirited 
ads  they  are !  How  full  of  the  savour  and  luxurious 
[238] 


On  Waiting  for  the  Curtain 

tang  of  the  beau  monde!    How  they  insist  on  saying 
specialiti  instead  of  specialty! 

Well,  all  we  meant  to  say  when  we  began  was,  the 
heroine  was  Only  Fair — by  which  we  mean  to  say 
she  was  beautiful  and  nothing  else. 


[239] 


MUSINGS  OF  JOHN  MISTLETOE 

IT  WAS  old  John  Mistletoe,  we   think,  in   his 
"Book    of    Deplorable   Facts,"   discussing    the 
congenial  topic  of  "Going  to  Bed"  (or  was  it  in  his 
essay   on    "The   Concinnity   of   Washerwomen?") 
said  something  like  this: 

Life  passes  by  with  deplorable  rapidity.  Post 
commutatorem  sedet  horologium  terrificum,  behind 
the  commuter  rideth  the  alarm  clock,  no  sooner  hath 
he  attained  to  the  office  than  it  is  time  for  lunch,  no 
sooner  hath  lunch  been  dispatched  than  it  is  time  to 
sign  those  dictated  letters,  no  sooner  this  accom 
plished,  'tis  time  to  hasten  trainward.  The  essential 
thing,  then,  is  not  to  let  one's  experiences  flow  ir 
revocably  past  like  a  river,  but  to  clutch  and  hold 
them,  thoughtfully,  long  enough  to  examine  and,  in 
a  manner,  sieve  them,  to  halt  them  in  the  mind  for 
meditation.  The  relentless  fluidity  of  life,  the  ease 
with  which  it  vanisheth  down  the  channel  of  the 
days,  is  the  problem  the  thoughtful  man  must  deal 
with.  The  urgent  necessity  is  to  dam  the  stream 
here  and  there  so  we  can  go  swimming  in  it. 

Time  is  a  breedy  creature :  the  minutes  propagate 
hours,  the  hours  beget  days,  the  days  raise  huge 
families  of  months,  and  before  we  know  it  we  are 
crowded  out  of  this  sweet  life  by  mere  surplus  of 
Time's  offspring.  This  is  a  brutish  Malthusianism 

[240] 


Musings  of  John  Mistletoe 

which  must  be  adamantly  countered.  Therefore 
it  is  my  counsel  that  every  man,  ere  he  retire  for  the 
night  and  commit  his  intellect  to  inscrutable  nothing 
ness,  do  let  it  hop  abroad  for  a  little  freedom.  Life 
must  be  taken  with  a  grain  of  saltation :  let  the  spirit 
dance  a  measure  or  two  ere  it  collapse.  For  this 
purpose  it  is  my  pleasure,  about  the  hour  of  mid 
night,  to  draw  a  jug  of  cider  from  the  keg  and  a  book 
from  the  shelf.  I  choose  some  volume  ill  written 
and  stupidly  conceived,  to  set  me  in  conceit  with 
myself.  I  read  a  few  pages,  and  then  apply  myself 
to  the  composition  of  verses.  These  done,  I  burn 
them,  and  go  to  bed  with  a  cheerful  spirit. 


[241] 


THE  WORLD'S  MOST  FAMOUS  ORATION 


Address  to  An  Employer  Upon  Demanding  a  Raise, 
or,  The  Battle  of  Manila  Envelopes 

As  Planned  As  Delivered 


I  think  you  will  ad 
mit,  sir,  that  the  quality 
of  my  work  during  the 
last  two  years  has  been 
such  that  my  services 
could  not  easily  be  re 
placed.  I  speak  more 
in  pain  than  in  anger 
when  I  say  that  it  has 
been  a  matter  of  pro 
found  surprise  to  me  to 
note  that  you  have  not 
seen  fit  to  acknowledge 
my  value  to  the  firm  in 
some  substantial  way.  I 
think  I  may  say  that 
I  have  been  patient. 
I  have  continued  my 
efforts  with  unremitting 
[242] 


If  you  are  not  too 
busy,  sir,  there  is  one 
other  matter — in  fact, 
the  truth  of  the  matter 
in  fact  is  exactly — well, 
sir,  I  was  precisely 
wondering  whether — of 
course  I  know  this  is  a 
bad  time — indeed  I  have 
been  very  pleased  to  see 
business  picking  up  a 
bit  lately,  and  I  am  sure 
my  own  department  has 
been — but  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  sir,  I  have  been 
wondering — of  course  it 
is  just  as  you  think  best 
and  I  wouldn't  think  of 
insisting,  but  after  all, 


Most  Famous  Oration 


zeal,  and  I  think  I  may 
flatter  myself  that  my 
endeavors  have  not  been 
without  result.  I  have 
here,  carefully  tabu 
lated,  a  memorandum  of 
the  increased  profits  in 
my  department  during 
the  last  twelve  months, 
due  in  great  part  to  my 
careful  management.  I 
am  sorry  to  have  to 
force  you  into  a  decision, 
but  I  think  I  owe  it  to 
myself  to  say  candidly 
that  unless  you  see  the 
matter  in  the  same  way 
that  I  do  I  shall  feel 
obliged  to  deprive  the 
firm  of  my  services. 


perhaps  I  have  made  a 
mistake  in  mentioning 
it,  but  I  was  thinking 
that  possibly  you  might 
bear  in  mind  the  idea  of 
a  possible  future  raise  in 
salary  at  some  future 
time. 


[243] 


ON  LAZINESS 


TO-DAY  we  rather  intended  to  write  an  essay 
on  Laziness,  but  were  too  indolent  to  do  so. 
The  sort  of  thing  we  had  in  mind  to  write  would 
have  been  exceedingly  persuasive.     We  intended  to 
discourse  a  little  in  favour  of  a  greater  appreciation 
of  Indolence  as  a  benign  factor  in  human  affairs. 

It  is  our  observation  that  every  time  we  get  into 

trouble  it  is  due  to  not  having  been  lazy  enough. 

Unhappily,  we  were  born  with  a  certain  fund  of 

energy.    We  have  been  hustling  about  for  a  number 

[244] 


On  Laziness 

of  years  now,  and  it  doesn't  seem  to  get  us  anything 
but  tribulation.  Henceforward  we  are  going  to 
make  a  determined  effort  to  be  more  languid  and 
demure.  It  is  the  bustling  man  who  always  gets 
put  on  committees,  who  is  asked  to  solve  the  prob 
lems  of  other  people  and  neglect  his  own. 

The  man  who  is  really,  thoroughly,  and  philo 
sophically  slothful  is  the  only  thoroughly  happy  man. 
It  is  the  happy  man  who  benefits  the  world.  The 
conclusion  is  inescapable. 

We  remember  a  saying  about  the  meek  inheriting 
the  earth.  The  truly  meek  man  is  the  lazy  man. 
He  is  too  modest  to  believe  that  any  ferment  and 
hubbub  of  his  can  ameliorate  the  earth  or  assuage 
the  perplexities  of  humanity. 

O.  Henry  said  once  that  one  should  be  careful  to 
distinguish  laziness  from  dignified  repose.  Alas, 
that  was  a  mere  quibble.  Laziness  is  always  dig 
nified,  it  is  always  reposeful.  Philosophical  lazi 
ness,  we  mean.  The  kind  of  laziness  that  is  based 
upon  a  carefully  reasoned  analysis  of  experience. 
Acquired  laziness.  We  have  no  respect  for  those 
who  were  born  lazy;  it  is  like  being  born  a  million 
aire:  they  cannot  appreciate  their  bliss.  It  is  the 
man  who  has  hammered  his  laziness  out  of  the  stub 
born  material  of  life  for  whom  we  chant  praise  and 
allelulia. 

The  laziest  man  we  know — we  do  not  like  to 
mention  his  name,  as  the  brutal  world  does  not  yet 

[245] 


Pipefuls 

recognize  sloth  at  its  community  value — is  one  of  the 
greatest  poets  in  this  country;  one  of  the  keenest 
satirists;  one  of  the  most  rectilinear  thinkers.  He 
began  life  in  the  customary  hustling  way.  He  was 
always  too  busy  to  enjoy  himself.  He  became 
surrounded  by  eager  people  who  came  to  him  to 
solve  their  problems.  "It's  a  queer  thing,"  he  said 
sadly;  "no  one  ever  comes  to  me  asking  for  help  in 
solving  my  problems."  Finally  the  light  broke  upon 
him.  He  stopped  answering  letters,  buying  lunches 
for  casual  friends  and  visitors  from  out  of  town,  he 
stopped  lending  money  to  old  college  pals  and  fritter 
ing  his  time  away  on  all  the  useless  minor  matters 
that  pester  the  good-natured.  He  sat  down  in  a 
secluded  cafe  with  his  cheek  against  a  seidel  of  dark 
beer  and  began  to  caress  the  universe  with  his  in 
tellect. 

The  most  damning  argument  against  the  Ger 
mans  is  that  they  were  not  lazy  enough.  In  the 
middle  of  Europe,  a  thoroughly  disillusioned,  in 
dolent  and  delightful  old  continent,  the  Germans 
were  a  dangerous  mass  of  energy  and  bumptious 
push.  If  the  Germans  had  been  as  lazy,  as  indiffer 
ent,  and  as  righteously  laissez-fairish  as  their  neigh 
bours  the  world  would  have  been  spared  a  great  deal. 

People  respect  laziness.     If  you  once  get  a  repu 
tation  for  complete,   immovable,  and  reckless  in 
dolence   the   world   will   leave   you   to   your   own 
thoughts,  which  are  generally  rather  interesting. 
[246] 


On  Laziness 

Doctor  Johnson,  who  was  one  of  the  world's 
great  philosophers,  was  lazy.  Only  yesterday  our 
friend  the  Caliph  showed  us  an  extraordinarily  inter 
esting  thing.  It  was  a  little  leather-bound  notebook 
in  which  Boswell  jotted  down  memoranda  of  his 
talks  with  the  old  doctor.  These  notes  he  after 
ward  worked  up  into  the  immortal  Biography.  And 
lo  and  behold,  what  was  the  very  first  entry  in  this 
treasured  little  relic? 

Doctor  Johnson  told  me  in  going  to  Ham  from 
Ashbourne,  22  September,  1777,  that  the  way  the 
plan  of  his  Dictionary  came  to  be  addressed  to  Lord 
Chesterfield  was  this:  He  had  neglected  to  write  it 
by  the  time  appointed.  Dodsley  suggested  a  desire 
to  have  it  addressed  to  Lord  C.  Mr.  J.  laid  hold 
of  this  as  an  excuse  for  delay,  that  it  might  be  better 
done  perhaps,  and  let  Dodsley  have  his  desire.  Mr. 
Johnson  said  to  his  friend,  Doctor  Bathurst:  "Now 
if  any  good  comes  of  my  addressing  to  Lord  Chester 
field  it  will  be  ascribed  to  deep  policy  and  address, 
when,  in  fact,  it  was  only  a  casual  excuse  for  laziness. 

Thus  we  see  that  it  was  sheer  laziness  that  led 
to  the  greatest  triumph  of  Doctor  Johnson's  life, 
the  noble  and  memorable  letter  to  Chesterfield  in 
1775. 

Mind  your  business  is  a  good  counsel;  but  mind 
your  idleness  also.  It's  a  tragic  thing  to  make  a 
business  of  your  mind.  Save  your  mind  to  amuse 
yourself  with. 

[247] 


Pipefuls 

The  lazy  man  does  not  stand  in  the  way  of  prog 
ress.  When  he  sees  progress  roaring  down  upon  him 
he  steps  nimbly  out  of  the  way.  The  lazy  man 
doesn't  (in  the  vulgar  phrase)  pass  the  buck.  He 
lets  the  buck  pass  him.  We  have  always  secretly 
envied  our  lazy  friends.  Now  we  are  going  to  join 
them.  We  have  burned  our  boats  or  our  bridges  or 
whatever  it  is  that  one  burns  on  the  eve  of  a  mo 
mentous  decision. 

Writing  on  this  congenial  topic  has  roused  us  up 
to  quite  a  pitch  of  enthusiasm  and  energy. 


[248] 


TEACHING  THE  PRINCE  TO  TAKE  NOTES 


THE  Prince  of  Wales  probably  suffers  severely 
during  his  tours  abroad,  for  he  is  a  shy  youth; 
but  he  also  makes  many  friends,  for  he  is  a  delight 
fully  simple  and  agreeable  person.  When  we  used 
to  see  him  he  looked  a  good  deal  like  the  tradi 
tional  prince  of  the  fairy  tales,  for  he  was  a  slender 
boy  with  yellow  hair,  and  blue  eyes,  and  a  quick  pink 
blush.  And  we  feel  toward  him  the  friendly  sense 
of  superiority  that  the  college  alumnus  always  feels 
toward  the  man  who  was  a  freshman  when  he  him 
self  was  a  senior;  for  the  prince  and  ourself  stood  in 
that  relation  a  few  years  ago  at  a  certain  haunt  of 
letters. 

[249] 


Pipefuls 

There  was  a  course  of  lectures  on  history  that  we 
were  to  attend.  It  was  a  popular  course,  and  the  at 
tendance  was  large.  Arriving  late  at  the  first 
lecture  the  room  was  packed,  and  we  could  see  from 
the  door  that  there  was  only  one  empty  seat.  This 
happened  to  be  in  the  very  front  row,  and  wondering 
how  it  was  that  so  desirable  a  place  had  not  been 
seized  we  hastened  to  it.  The  lecturer  was  a  swift 
talker,  and  we  fell  to  taking  notes  busily.  Not  for 
some  minutes  did  we  have  a  chance  to  scrutinize 
our  surroundings.  We  then  saw  that  in  the  adjoin 
ing  chair  sat  the  prince,  and  surmised  that  no  one 
had  wanted  to  take  the  chair  for  fear  of  being 
twitted  by  his  companions  for  a  supposed  desire  to 
hobnob  with  royalty. 

If  we  remember  correctly,  it  was  the  prince's  first 
term  of  college  life.  The  task  of  taking  notes  from 
a  rapid-fire  lecturer  was  plainly  one  to  which  he  was 
not  accustomed,  and  as  he  wrestled  with  his  note 
book  we  could  see  that  he  had  not  learned  the  art  of 
considering  the  lecturer's  remarks  and  putting  down 
only  the  gist  of  them,  in  some  abbreviated  system  of 
his  own,  as  every  experienced  student  learns.  Grant 
Robertson,  the  well-known  historian,  was  lecturing 
on  English  constitutional  documents,  and  his  swift 
and  informal  utterance  was  perfectly  easy  to  sum 
marize  if  one  knew  how  to  get  down  the  important 
points  and  neglect  the  rest.  But  the  unhappy 
prince,  desperately  eager  to  do  the  right  thing  in 
[250] 


Teaching  the  Prince 

this  new  experience,  was  trying  to  write  down  every 
word.  If,  for  instance,  Mr.  Robertson  said  (in  a 
humorous  aside),  "Henry  VIII  was  a  sinful  old  man 
with  a  hobby  of  becoming  a  widower,"  the  ex 
perienced  listener  would  jot  down  something  like 
this:  H  8,  self-made  widower.  But  we  could  see 
that  the  prince  was  laboriously  copying  out  the 
sentence  in  full.  And  naturally,  by  the  end  of  a  few 
paragraphs,  he  was  hopelessly  behind.  But  he 
scribbled  away  industriously,  doing  his  best.  He 
realized,  however,  that  he  had  not  quite  got  the 
hang  of  the  thing,  and  at  the  end  of  the  lecture  he 
turned  to  us  with  most  agreeable  bashfulness  and 
asked  if  we  would  lend  him  our  notebook,  so  that  he 
could  get  down  the  points  that  he  had  missed.  We 
did  so,  and  briefly  explained  our  own  system  of 
abbreviating.  We  noticed  that  in  succeeding  ses 
sions  our  royal  neighbour  did  very  much  better, 
learning  in  some  measure  to  discriminate  between 
what  was  advisable  to  note  down  and  what  was  mere 
explanatory  matter  or  persiflage  on  the  part  of  the 
lecturer.  But  (if  we  must  be  candid)  we  would  not 
recommend  him  as  a  newspaper  reporter.  And,  in 
deed,  the  line  of  work  to  which  he  has  been  called 
does  not  require  quite  as  intense  concentration  as 
that  of  a  cub  on  what  Philip  Gibbs  calls  "The  Street 
of  Adventure." 

No  one  could  come  in  contact  with  the  prince 
without   liking   him,   for   his   bashful,  gentle,  and 

[251] 


Pipefuls 

teachable  nature  is  very  winning.  We  remem 
ber  with  a  certain  amusement  the  time  that  Grant 
Robertson  got  off  one  of  his  annual  gags  to  the  effect 
that,  according  to  the  principle  of  strict  legitimacy, 
there  were  in  Europe  several  hundred  (we  forget  the 
figure)  people  with  a  greater  right  to  the  British 
throne  than  the  family  at  present  occupying  it.  The 
roomful  of  students  roared  with  genial  mirth,  and 
the  unhappy  prince  blushed  in  a  way  that  young  girls 
used  to  hi  the  good  old  days  of  three-piece  bathing 
suits. 


[252] 


A  CITY  NOTEBOOK 

(Philadelphia} 

IT  WOULD  be  hard  to  find  a  more  lovely  spot 
in  the  flush  of  a  summer  sunset  than  Wister 
Woods.  Old  residents  of  the  neighbourhood  say 
that  the  trees  are  not  what  they  were  fifteen  and 
twenty  years  ago;  the  chestnuts  have  died  off;  even 
some  of  the  tall  tulip-poplars  are  a  little  bald  at  the 
top,  and  one  was  recently  felled  by  a  gale.  But  still 
that  quiet  plateau  stands  in  a  serene  hush,  flooded 
with  rich  orange  glow  on  a  warm  evening.  The 
hollyhocks  in  the  back  gardens  of  Rubicam  Street 
are  scarlet  and  Swiss-cheese-coloured  and  black;  and 
looking  across  the  railroad  ravine  one  sees  crypts 
and  aisles  of  green  as  though  in  the  heart  of  some 
cathedral  of  the  great  woods. 

Belfield  Avenue,  which  bends  through  the  valley 
in  a  curve  of  warm  thick  yellow  dust,  will  some  day 
be  boulevarded  into  a  spick-and-span  highway  for 
motors.  But  now  it  lies  little  trafficked,  and  one 
might  prefer  to  have  it  so,  for  in  the  stillness  of  the 
evening  the  birds  are  eloquent.  The  thrushes  of 
Wister  Woods,  which  have  been  immortalized  by 
T.  A.  Daly  in  perhaps  the  loveliest  poem  ever 

[253] 


Pipefuls 

written  in  Philadelphia,  flute  and  whistle  their 
tantalizing  note,  while  the  song  sparrow  echoes  them 
with  his  confident,  challenging  call.  Down  behind 
the  dusty  sumac  shrubbery  lies  the  little  blue-green 
cottage  said  to  have  been  used  by  Benjamin  West 
as  a  studio.  In  a  meadow  beside  the  road  two 
cows  were  grazing  in  the  blue  shadow  of  overhanging 
woodland. 

Over  the  road  leans  a  flat  outcrop  of  stone,  known 
locally  as  "The  Bum's  Rock."  An  antique  philoso 
pher  of  those  parts  assured  the  wayfarer  that  it  is 
named  for  a  romantic  vagabond  who  perished  there 
by  the  explosion  of  a  can  of  Bohemian  goulash  which 


he  was  heating  over  a  small  fire  of  sticks;  but  one 
doubts  the  tale.     Our  own  conjecture  is  that  it  is 
named  for  Jacob  Boehm,   the  oldtime  brewer  of 
Germantown,  who  predicted  hi  his  chronicles  that 
the  world  would  come  to  an  end  in  July,  1919. 
From  his  point  of  view  he  was  not  so  far  wrong. 
Above  Boehm 's  Rock,  in  a  grassy  level  among  the 
[254] 


A  City  Notebook 

trees,  a  merry  little  circle  of  young  ladies  was  sit 
ting  round  a  picnic  supper.  The  twilight  grew 
darker  and  fireflies  began  to  twinkle.  In  the  steep 
curve  of  the  Cinder  and  Bloodshot  (between  Fisher's 
and  Wister  stations)  a  cheerful  train  rumbled,  with 
its  engine  running  backward  just  like  a  country 
local.  Its  bright  shaft  of  light  wavered  among  the 
tall  tree  trunks.  One  would  not  imagine  that  it  was 
less  than  six  miles  to  the  City  Hall. 
*  *  * 

A  quarter  to  one  A.  M.,  and  a  hot,  silent  night. 
As  one  walks  up  Chestnut  Street  a  distant  roaring  is 
heard,  which  rapidly  grows  louder.  The  sound  has 
a  note  of  terrifying  menace.  Then,  careering  down 
the  almost  deserted  highway,  comes  a  huge  water- 
tank,  throbbing  like  an  airplane.  A  creamy  sheet 
of  water,  shot  out  at  high  pressure,  floods  the  street 
on  each  side,  dashing  up  on  the  pavements.  A  knot 
of  belated  revellers  in  front  of  the  Adelphia  Hotel, 
standing  in  mid-street,  to  discuss  ways  and  means 
of  getting  home,  skip  nimbly  to  one  side,  the  ladies 
lifting  up  their  dresses  with  shrill  squeaks  of  alarm 
as  the  water  splashes  round  them.  Pedestrians 
plodding  quietly  up  the  street  cower  fearfully  against 
the  buildings,  while  a  fine  mist  envelops  them. 

After  the  t^  nk  comes,  more  leisurely,  a  squad  of 
brooms.  The  street  is  dripping,  every  sewer  opening 
clucks  and  gurgles  with  the  falling  water.  There  is 
something  unbelievably  humorous  in  the  way  that 

[255] 


Pipefuls 

roaring  Niagara  of  water  dashes  madly  down  the 
silent  street.  There  is  a  note  of  irony  in  it,  too,  for 
the  depressed  enthusiasts  who  have  been  sitting  all 
evening  in  a  restaurant  over  lemonade  and  ginger  ale. 
Perhaps  the  chauffeur  is  a  prohibitionist  gone  mad, 

*  *         * 

While  eating  half  a  dozen  doughnuts  in  a  Broad 
Street  lunchroom  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  we 
mused  happily  about  our  friends  all  tucked  away  in 
bed,  sound  asleep.  There  is  one  in  particular  on 
whom  we  thought  with  serene  pleasure.  It  was 
charming  to  think  of  that  delightful,  argumentative, 
contradictory,  volatile  person,  his  active  mind  stilled 
in  the  admirable  reticence  of  slumber.  He,  so  end 
lessly  speculatory,  so  full  of  imaginative  enthusi 
asms  and  riotous  intuitions  and  troubled  zeals  con 
cerning  humanity,  lost  in  a  beneficent  swoon  of 
unconsciousness!  We  could  not  just  say  why,  but 
we  broke  into  chuckles  to  think  of  him  lying  there, 
not  denying  any  of  our  statements,  absolutely  and 
positively  saying  nothing.  To  have  one's  friends 
asleep  now  and  then  is  very  refreshing. 

*  *        * 

Off  Walnut  Street,  below  Fifth,  and  just  east  of 
the  window  where  that  perfectly  lovely  damsel  sits 
operating  an  adding  machine — why  is  it,  by  the  way, 
that  the  girls  who  run  adding  machines  are  always  so 
marvellously  fair?  Is  there  some  secret  virtue  in 
the  process  of  adding  that  makes  one  lovely?  We 
[256] 


A  City  Notebook 

feel  sure  that  a  subtracting  engine  would  not  have 
that  subtle  beautifying  effect— just  below  Fifth 
Street,  we  started  to  say,  there  runs  a  little  alley 
called  (we  believe)  De  Silver  Court.  It  is  a  sombre 
little  channel  between  high  walls  and  barred  win 
dows,  but  it  is  a  retreat  we  recommend  highly  to 
hay  fever  sufferers.  For  in  one  of  the  buildings 
adjoining  there  seems  to  be  a  warehouse  of  some 
company  that  makes  an  "aromatic  disinfector." 
Wandering  in  there  by  chance,  we  stood  delighted  at 
the  sweet  medicinal  savour  that  was  wafted  on  the  air. 
It  had  a  most  cheering  effect  upon  our  emunctory 
woes,  and  we  lingered  so  long,  in  a  meditative  and 
healing  ecstasy,  that  young  women  immured  in  the 
basement  of  the  aromatic  warehouse  began  to  peer 
upward  from  the  barred  windows  of  their  basement 
and  squeak  with  astonished  and  nervous  mirth.  We 
blew  a  loud  salute  and  moved  away. 

*        *        * 

We  entered  a  lunchroom  on  Broad  Street  for  our 
favourite  breakfast  of  coffee  and  a  pair  of  crullers. 
It  was  strangely  early  and  only  a  few  of  the  flat-arm 
chairs  were  occupied.  After  dispatching  the  rations 
we  carefully  filled  our  pipe.  With  us  we  had  a  copy 
of  an  agreeable  book,  "The  Calamities  and  Quarrels 
of  Authors."  It  occurred  to  us  that  here,  in  the  brisk 
serenity  of  the  morning,  would  be  a  charming  op 
portunity  for  a  five-minute  smoke  and  five  pages  of 
reading  before  attacking  the  ardours  and  endurances 

[257] 


Pipefuls 


of  the  day.    Lovingly  we  applied  the  match  to  the 
fuel.     We  began  to  read : 

Of  all  the  sorrows  in  which  the  female  character 
may  participate,  there  are  few  more  affecting  than 
those  of  an  authoress 


A  stern,  white-coated  official  came  over  to  us  and 
tapped  us  on  the  shoulder. 

"There's  a  sign  behind  you,"  he  said. 
We  looked,  guiltily,  and  saw: 

POSITIVELY 
NO  SMOKING 

*        *        * 

The  cocoateria  on  Eighth  Street  closes  at  one  A.  M. 
Between  twelve-thirty  and  closing  time  it  is  full  of 
[258] 


A  City  Notebook 

busy  eaters,  mostly  the  night  shift  from  the  Chestnut 
Street  newspaper  offices  and  printing  and  engraving 
firms  in  the  neighbourhood.  Ham  and  eggs  blossom 
merrily.  The  white-coated  waiters  move  in  swift, 
stern  circuit.  Griddle  cakes  bake  with  amazing 
swiftness  toward  the  stroke  of  one.  Little  dishes  of 
baked  beans  stand  hot  and  ready  in  the  steam-chest. 
The  waiter  punches  your  check  as  he  brings  your 
frankfurters  and  coffee.  He  adds  another  perfora 
tion  when  you  get  your  ice  cream.  Then  he  comes 
back  and  punches  it  again. 

"Here,"  you  cry,  "let  it  alone  and  stop  bullying  it!" 
"Sorry,  brother,"  he  says.     "I  forgot  that  peach 
cream  was  fifteen  cents." 

One  o'clock.  They  lock  the  door  and  turn  out 
the  little  gas  jet  where  smokers  light  up.  As  the 
tables  empty  the  chairs  are  stacked  up  on  top.  And 
if  it  is  a  clear  warm  evening  the  customers  smoke 
a  final  weed  along  the  Chestnut  Street  doorsteps, 
talking  together  in  a  cheery  undertone 
*  *  * 

No  man  has  ever  started  upon  a  new  cheque-book 
without  a  few  sourly  solemn  thoughts. 

In  the  humble  waters  of  finance  wherein  we  paddle 
we  find  that  a  book  of  fifty  cheques  lasts  us  about 
four  months,  allowing  for  two  or  three  duds  when  we 
start  to  make  out  a  foil  payable  to  bearer  (self)  and 
decide  to  renounce  that  worthy  ambition  and  make  it 
out  to  the  gas  company  instead. 

[259] 


Pipefuls 

It  occurs  to  us  that  if  Bunyan  had  been  writing 
"Pilgrim's  Progress"  nowadays  instead  of  making 
Christian  encounter  lions  in  the  path  he  would  have 
substituted  gas  meters,  particularly  the  quarter-in- 
the-slot  kind  that  one  finds  in  a  seaside  cottage. 
However 

Four  months  is  quite  a  long  time.  It  may  be 
weak  of  us,  but  we  can  never  resist  wondering  as  we 
survey  that  flock  of  empty  cheques  just  what  ad 
ventures  our  bank  account  is  going  to  undergo  during 
that  period,  and  whether  our  customary  technique 
of  being  aloof  with  the  receiving  teller  and  genial 
and  commentary  with  the  paying  ditto  is  the  right 
one.  We  always  believe  in  keeping  a  paying  teller 
in  a  cheerful  frame  of  mind.  We  would  never  ad 
mit  to  him  that  we  think  it  is  going  to  rain.  We  say, 
rather,  "Well,  it  may  blow  over,"  and  try  not  to 
surmise  how  many  hundreds  there  are  in  the  pile  at 
his  elbow.  Probably  we  think  the  explanation  for 
the  really  bizarre  architecture  of  our  bank  is  to  keep 
depositors'  attention  from  the  money.  Unquestion 
ably  Walt  Whitman's  tomb  over  in  Harleigh — Walt's 
vault — was  copied  from  our  bank. 

The  cheques  in  our  book  are  blue.  We  have  always 
regretted  this.  If  we  had  known  it  beforehand 
perhaps  we  would  have  inflicted  our  problems  upon 
another  bank.  Because  there  are  so  many  more  in 
teresting  colours  for  cheques,  tints  upon  which  the  ink 
shows  up  in  a  more  imposing  manner.  A  pale  pink 
[260] 


A  City  Notebook 

or  cream-coloured  cheque  for  $2.74  looks  much  more 
exciting  than  a  blue  cheque  for  $25.  We  have  known 
gray,  pink,  white,  brown,  green,  and  salmon-coloured 
cheques.  A  friend  of  ours  once  showed  us  one  that 
was  a  bright  orange,  but  refused  to  let  us  handle  it. 
But  yellow  is  the  colour  that  appeals  to  us  most 
strongly.  When  we  were  very  young  and  away  from 
home  our  monthly  allowance,  the  amount  of  which 
we  shall  not  state,  but  it  cost  us  less  effort  than  any 
money  we  ever  received  since,  came  to  us  by  way  of 
pale  primrose-coloured  cheques.  For,  after  all,  there 
are  no  cheques  like  those  one  used  to  get  from  one's 
father.  We  hope  the  Urchin  will  think  so  some  day. 

*        *        * 

We  like  to  pay  homage  to  the  true  artist  in  all 
lines.  At  the  corner  of  Market  and  Marshall 
streets — between  Sixth  and  Seventh — the  collar- 
clasp  orator  has  his  rostrum,  and  it  seems  to  us  that 
his  method  of  harangue  has  the  quality  of  genuine 
art.  He  does  not  bawl  or  try  to  terrify  or  bully  his 
audience  into  purchase  as  do  the  auctioneers  of  the 
"pawnbrokers'  outlets."  How  gently,  how  win- 
ningly,  how  sweetly  he  pleads  the  merits  of  his  little 
collar  clasp !  And  there  is  shrewd  imagination  in  his 
attention-catching  device,  which  is  a  small  boy 
dressed  in  black,  wearing  a  white  hood  of  cheese 
cloth  that  hides  his  face.  This  peculiar  silent  figure, 
with  a  touch  of  mystery  about  it,  serves  to  keep  the 
crowd  wondering  until  the  oration  begins. 

[261] 


Pipefuls 

With  a  smile,  with  infinite  ingratiation  and  gentle 
persuasion,  our  friend  exhibits  the  merits  of  his 
device  which  does  away  with  the  traditional  collar- 
button.  His  art  is  to  make  the  collar-button  seem  a 
piteous,  almost  a  tragic 
thing.  His  eyes  swim 
with  unshed  tears  as  he  de 
scribes  the  discomfort  of 
the  man  whose  collar, 
fastened  by  the  customary 
button,  cannot  be  given 
greater  freedom  on  a  hot, 
muggy  day.  He  shows,  by 
exhibition  on  his  own  per 
son,  the  exquisite  relief  afforded  by  the  adjustable  col 
lar  clasp.  "When  the  day  grows  cool,"  he  says,  "when 
you  begin  to  enjoy  yourself  and  want  your  collar 
tighter,  you  just  loosen  the  clasp,  slide  the  tabs  closer 
together,  and  there  you  are.  And  no  picking  at 
your  tie  to  get  the  knot  undone.  Now,  how  many 
of  you  men  have  spoiled  an  expensive  tie  by  picking 
at  it?  Your  fingers  come  in  contact  with  the  fibres 
of  the  silk  and  the  first  thing  you  know  the  tie  is 
soiled.  This  little  clasp" — and  he  casts  a  beam  of 
affection  upon  it — "saves  your  tie,  it  saves  your 
collar,  and  it  saves  your  patience."  A  note  of 
yearning  pathos  comes  into  his  agreeable  voice,  and 
he  holds  out  a  handful  of  the  old-fashioned  collar- 
buttons.  "You  men  are  wearing  the  same  buttons 
[262] 


A  City  Notebook 


your  great-grandfathers  wore.  Don't  you  want  to 
get  out  of  collar  slavery?  Don't  you  want  to  quit 
working  your  face  all  out  of  shape  struggling  with  a 
collar-button?  Now  as  this  is  a  manufacturing 

demonstration " 

*        *        * 

On  a  warm  evening  nothing  is  more  pleasant  than 
a  ride  on  the  front  platform  of  the  Market  Street  L, 
with  the  front  door  open.  As  the  train  leaves  Sixty- 
ninth  Street  it  dips  down  the  Millbourne  bend  and 
the  cool,  damp  smell  of  the  Cobb's  Creek  meadows 
gushes  through  the  car.  Then  the  track  straightens 
out  for  a  long  run  toward  the  City  Hall.  Roaring 
over  the  tree  tops,  with  the  lights  of  movies  and 
shops  glowing  up  from  below,  a  warm  typhoon 
makes  one  lean  against  it  to  keep  one's  footing. 
The  airy  stations  are  lined  by  girls  in  light  summer 
dresses,  attended  by  their  swains.  The  groan  of  the 
wheels  underfoot  causes  a  curious  tickling  in  the 
soles  of  the  feet  as  one  stands  on  the  steel  plat 
form. 

This  groan  rises  to  a  shrill  scream  as  the  train  gath 
ers  speed  between  stations,  gradually  diminishing 
to  a  reluctant  grumble  as  the  cars  come  to  a  stop. 
In  the  distance,  in  a  peacock-blue  sky,  the  double 
gleam  of  the  City  Hall  tower  shines  against  the 
night.  Down  on  the  left  is  the  hiss  and  clang  of 
West  Philadelphia  station,  with  the  long,  dim,  amber 
glow  of  the  platform  and  belated  commuters  pacing 

[  263  I 


Pipefuls 

about.    Then  the  smoky  dive  across  the  Schuylkill 
and  the  bellow  of  the  subway. 
*        *        * 

From  time  to  time  humanity  is  forced  to  revise  its 
customary  notions  in  the  interests  of  truth.  This  is 
always  painful. 

It  is  an  old  fetich  that  the  week-end  in  summer  is  a 
time  for  riotous  enjoyment,  of  goodly  cheer  and 
mirthful  solace.  A  careful  examination  of  human 
beings  during  this  hebdomadal  period  of  carnival 
leads  us  to  question  the  doctrine. 

When  we  watch  the  horrors  of  discomfort  and 
vexation  endured  by  simple-hearted  citizens  in 


pursuit  of  a  light-hearted  Saturday  and  Sunday,  we 
often  wonder  how  it  is  that  humanity  will  so  glee 
fully  inflict  upon  itself  sufferings  which,  if  they  were 
imposed  by  some  taskmaster,  would  be  called 
atrocious. 
[264] 


A  City  Notebook 

We  observe,  for  instance,  women  and  children 
standing  sweltering  in  the  aisles  of  trains  during  a 
two-hour  run  to  the  seashore.  We  observe  the 
number  of  drownings,  motor  accidents,  murders,  and 
suicides  that  take  place  during  the  Saturday  to 
Monday  period.  We  observe  families  loaded  down 
with  small  children,  who  might  have  been  happy  and 
reasonably  cool  at  home,  struggling  desperately  to 
get  away  for  a  day  hi  the  country,  rising  at  5  A.  M., 
standing  in  line  at  the  station,  fanning  themselves 
with  blasphemy,  and  weary  before  they  start.  We 
observe  them  chased  home  by  thunderstorms  or 
colic,  dazed  and  blistered  with  sunburn,  or  groaning 
with  a  surfeit  of  ice  cream  cones. 

It  is  a  lamentable  fact  (and  the  truth  is  almost  al 
ways  lamentable,  and  hotly  denied)  that  for  the 
hard-working  majority  the  week-end  is  a  curse 
rather  than  a  blessing.  The  saddest  fact  in  human, 
annals  is  that  most  people  are  never  so  happy  as 
when  they  are  hard  at  work.  The  time  may  come 
when  criminals  will  be  condemned,  not  to  the  chair, 
but  to  twenty  successive  week-ends  spent  standing 
in  the  aisles  of  crowded  excursion  trains. 
*  *  * 

Strolling  downtown  to  a  well-known  home  of  fish 
dinners,  it  is  appetizing  to  pass  along  the  curve  of 
Dock  Street  in  the  coolness  of  the  evening.  The 
clean,  lively  odours  of  vegetables  and  fruit  are  strong 
on  the  air.  Under  the  broad  awnings  of  the  com- 

[265] 


Pipefuls 


mission  merchants  and  produce  dealers  the  stock  is 
piled  up  in  neat  and  engaging  piles  ready  to  be 
carted  away  at  dawn.  Under  the  glow  of  pale  arcs 
and  gas  lamps  the  colours  of  the  scene  are  vivid. 
Great  baskets  of  eggplant  shine  like  huge  grapes,  a 
polished  port  wine  colour;  green  and  scarlet  peppers 
catch  points  of  light;  a  flat  pinkish  colour  gleams  on 
carrots.  Each  species  seems  to  have  an  ordered 
pattern  of  its  own.  Potatoes  are  ranged  in  a  pyra 
mid;  watermelons  in  long  rows;  white  and  yellow 
onions  are  heaped  in  sacks.  The  sweet  musk  of 
cantaloupes  is  the  scent  that  overbreathes  all  others. 
Then,  down  nearer  to  the  waterfront,  comes  the 
strong,  damp  fishy  whiff  of  oysters.  To  stroll 
among  these  gleaming  piles  of  victuals,  to  watch  the 
various  colours  where  the  lamps  pour  a  pale  silver  and 
yellow  on  cairns  and  pyramids  of  vegetables,  is  to 
gather  a  lusty  appetite  and  attack  the  first  oyster 
stew  of  the  season  with  a  stout  heart. 


[266] 


A  City  Notebook 

It  being  a  very  humid  day,  we  stopped  to  com 
pliment  the  curly-headed  sandwich  man  at  Ninth 
and  Market  on  his  decollete  corsage,  which  he 
wears  in  the  Walt  Whitman  manner.  "Wish  we 
could  get  away  with  it  the  way  you  do,"  we  said, 
admiringly.  He  looked  at  us  with  the  patience  of 
one  inured  to  bourgeois  comment.  "It's  got  to  be 
tried,"  said  he,  "like  everything  else." 
*  *  * 

We  stopped  by  the  Weather  Man's  little  il 
luminated  booth  at  Ninth  and  Chestnut  about 
10  o'clock  in  the  evening.  We  were  scrutinizing  his 
pretty  coloured  pictures,  wondering  how  soon  the 
rain  would  determine,  when  a  slender  young  man 
appeared  out  of  the  gloom,  said  "I'm  sorry  to  have 
to  do  this,"  switched  off  the  light,  and  pulled  down 
the  rolling  front  of  the  booth.  It  was  the  Weather 
Man  himself. 

We  were  greatly  elated  to  meet  this  mythical  sage 
and  walked  down  the  street  a  little  way  with  him. 
In  order  to  cheer  him  up,  we  complimented  him  on 
the  artistic  charm  of  his  little  booth,  with  its  glow  of 
golden  light  shining  on  the  coloured  map  and  the 
bright  loops  and  curves  of  crayon.  We  told  him 
how  almost  at  any  time  in  the  evening  groups  of 
people  can  be  seen  admiring  his  stall,  but  his 
sensitive  heart  was  gloomy. 

"Most  of  them  don't  understand  it,"  he  said, 
morosely.  "The  women  are  the  worst.  I've  gone 

[267] 


Pipefuls 

there  in  the  evening  and  found  them  studying  the 
map  eagerly.  Hopefully,  I  would  creep  up  behind 
to  hear  their  comments.  One  will  say,  'Yes,  that's 
where  my  husband  came  from,'  or  'I  spent  last  sum 
mer  over  there,'  pointing  to  some  place  on  the  map. 
They  seem  to  think  it's  put  there  for  them  to  study 
geography." 

We  tried  to  sympathize  with  the  broken-hearted 
scientist,  but  his  spirit  had  been  crushed  by  a  long 
series  of  woes. 

"The  other  evening,"  said  he,  "I  saw  a  couple  of 
girls  gazing  at  the  map,  and  they  looked  so  intel 
ligent  I  really  was  charmed.  Apparently  they  were 
discussing  an  area  of  low  pressure  that  was  moving 
down  from  the  Great  Lakes,  and  I  lent  an  ear.  Im 
agine  my  chagrin  when  one  of  them  said:  'You  see 
the  colour  of  that  chalk  line?  I'm  going  to  make  my 
next  knitted  vestee  just  like  that.'  And  the  other 
one  said:  'I  think  the  whole  colour  scheme  is  ador 
able.  I'm  going  to  use  it  as  a  pattern  for  my  new 
camouflage  bathing-suit.' 

"Thank  goodness,"  cried  the  miserable  Weather 
Man?  "I  have  another  map  like  that  down  at  the 
Bourse,  and  the  brokers  really  give  it  some  intelligent 
attention." 

We  went  on  our  way  sadly,  thinking  how  many 

sorrows  there  are  in  the  world.     It  is  grievous  to 

think  of  the  poor  Weather  Man,  lurking  with  beating 

pulses  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Ninth  and  Chestnut 

[268] 


A  City  Notebook 

in  the  hope  of  finding  someone  who  understands  his 
painstaking  display.  The  next  time  you  are  stand 
ing  in  front  of  his  booth  do  say  something  about 
the  Oceanic  High  in  the  South  Atlantic  or  the 
dangerous  Aleutian  Low  or  the  anticyclonic  condi 
tion  prevailing  in  the  Alleghanies.  He  might  over- 
Uear  you,  and  it  would  do  his  mournful  heart  good. 


It  was  eight  o'clock,  a  cool  drizzling  night. 
Chestnut  Street  was  gray  with  a  dull,  pearly, 
opaque  twilight.  In  the  little  portico  east  of  In 
dependence  Hall  the  gas  lamp  under  the  ceiling 
cast  a  soft  pink  glow  on  the  brick  columns. 

Independence  Square  was  a  sea  of  tremulous, 
dripping  boughs.  The  quaint  heptahedral  lamps 
threw  splashed  shimmers  of  topaz  colour  across  the 
laky  pavement.  "Golden  lamps  in  a  green  night," 
as  Marvell  says,  twinkled  through  the  stir  and  mois 
ture  of  the  evening. 

[269] 


ON  GOING  TO  BED 

ONE  of  the  characters  in  "The  Moon  and  Six 
pence"  remarked  that  he  had  faithfully  lived 
up  to  the  old  precept  about  doing  every  day  two 
things  you  heartily  dislike;  for,  said  he,  every  day 
he  had  got  up  and  he  had  gone  to  bed. 

It  is  a  sad  thing  that  as  soon  as  the  hands  of  the 
clock  have  turned  ten  the  shadow  of  going  to  bed 
begins  to  creep  over  the  evening.  We  have  never 
heard  bedtime  spoken  of  with  any  enthusiasm. 
One  after  another  we  have  seen  a  gathering  disperse, 
each  person  saying  (with  an  air  of  solemn  resigna 
tion):  "Well,  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed."  But  there  was 
no  hilarity  about  it.  It  is  really  rather  touching 
how  they  cling  to  the  departing  skirts  of  the  day  that 
is  vanishing  under  the  spinning  shadow  of  night. 

This  is  odd,  we  repeat,  for  sleep  is  highly  popular 
among  human  beings.  The  reluctance  to  go  to 
one's  couch  is  not  at  all  a  reluctance  to  slumber,  for 
almost  all  of  us  will  doze  happily  in  an  armchair  or  on 
a  sofa,  or  even  festooned  on  the  floor  with  a  couple  of 
cushions.  But  the  actual  and  formal  yielding  to 
sheets  and  blankets  is  to  be  postponed  to  the  last 
possible  moment. 
[270] 


On  Going  to  Bed 

The  devil  of  drowsiness  is  at  his  most  potent,  we 
find,  about  10:30  p.  M.  At  this  period  the  human 
carcass  seems  to  consider  that  it  has  finished  its 
cycle,  which  began  with  so  much  courage  nearly 
sixteen  hours  before.  It  begins  to  slack  and  the 
mind  halts  on  a  dead  centre  every  now  and  then,  re 
fusing  to  complete  the  revolution.  Now  there  are 
those  who  hold  that  this  is  certainly  the  seemly  and 
appointed  time  to  go  to  bed  and  they  do  so  as  a 
matter  of  routine.  These  are,  commonly,  the 
happier  creatures,  for  they  take  the  tide  of  sleep  at 
the  flood  and  are  borne  calmly  and  with  gracious 
gentleness  out  to  great  waters  of  nothingness.  They 
push  off  from  the  wharf  on  a  tranquil  current  and 
nothing  more  is  to  be  seen  or  heard  of  these  voyagers 
until  they  reappear  at  the  breakfast  table,  digging 
lustily  into  their  grape  fruit. 

These  people  are  happy,  aye,  in  a  brutish  and 
sedentary  fashion,  but  they  miss  the  admirable 
adventures  of  those  more  embittered  wrestlers  who 
will  not  give  in  without  a  struggle.  These  latter 
suffer  severe  pangs  between  10:30  and  about  11:15 
while  they  grapple  with  their  fading  faculties  and 
seek  to  reestablish  the  will  on  its  tottering  throne. 
This  requires  courage  stout,  valour  unbending. 
Once  you  yield,  be  it  ever  so  little,  to  the  tempter, 
you  are  lost.  And  here  our  poor  barren  clay  plays  us 
false,  undermining  the  intellect  with  many  a  trick 
and  wile.  "I  will  sit  down  for  a  season  in  that  com- 

[271] 


Pipef  uls 

fortable  chair,"  the  creature  says  to  himself,  "and 
read  this  sprightly  novel.  That  will  ease  my  mind 
and  put  me  in  humour  for  a  continuance  of  lively 
thinking."  And  the  end  of  that  man  is  a  steady 
nasal  buzz  from  the  bottom  of  the  chair  where  he 
has  collapsed,  an  unsightly  object  and  a  disgrace  to 
humanity.  This  also  means  a  big  bill  from  the 
electric  light  company  at  the  end  of  the  month.  In 
many  such  ways  will  his  corpus  bewray  him,  leading 
him  by  plausible  self-deceptions  into  a  pitfall  of 
sleep,  whence  he  is  aroused  about  3  A.  M.  when  the 
planet  turns  over  on  the  other  side.  Only  by  stiff 
perseverance  and  rigid  avoidance  of  easy  chairs  may 
the  critical  hour  between  10:30  and  11:30  be  safely 
passed.  Tobacco,  a  self-brewed  pot  of  tea,  and  a 
browsing  along  bookshelves  (remain  standing  and  do 
not  sit  down  with  your  book)  are  helps  in  this  time  of 
struggle.  Even  so,  there  are  some  happily  drowsy 
souls  who  can  never  cross  these  shallows  alone  with 
out  grounding  on  the  Lotus  Reefs.  Our  friend 

J D —    -    K ,    magnificent    creature,    was 

(when  we  lived  with  him)  so  potently  hypnophil  that, 
even  erect  and  determined  at  his  bookcase  and 
urgently  bent  upon  Brann's  Iconoclast  or  some  other 
literary  irritant,  sleep  would  seep  through  his  pores 
and  he  would  fall  with  a  crash,  lying  there  in  un 
conscious  bliss  until  someone  came  in  and  prodded 
him  up,  reeling  and  ashamed. 

But,  as  we  started  to  say,  those  who  survive  this 
[272] 


On  Going  to  Bed 

drastic  weeding  out  which  Night  imposes  upon  ner 
wooers — so  as  to  cull  and  choose  only  the  truly  meri 
torious  lovers — experience  supreme  delights  which 
are  unknown  to  their  snoring  fellows.  When  the 
struggle  with  somnolence  has  been  fought  out  and 
won,  when  the  world  is  all-covering  darkness  and 
close-pressing  silence,  when  the  tobacco  suddenly 
takes  on  fresh  vigour  and  fragrance  and  the  books  lie 
strewn  about  the  table,  then  it  seems  as  though  all 
the  rubbish  and  floating  matter  of  the  day's  thoughts 
have  poured  away  and  only  the  bright,  clear,  and 
swift  current  of  the  mind  itself  remains,  flowing 
happily  and  without  impediment.  This  perfection 
of  existence  is  not  to  be  reached  very  often;  but 
when  properly  approached  it  may  be  won.  It  is  a 
different  mind  that  one  uncovers  then,  a  spirit  which 
is  lucid  and  hopeful,  to  which  (for  a  few  serene  hours) 
time  exists  not.  The  friable  resolutions  of  the  day 
are  brought  out  again  and  recemented  and  chiselled 
anew.  Surprising  schemes  are  started  and  carried 
through  to  happy  conclusion,  lifetimes  of  amaze 
ment  are  lived  in  a  few  passing  ticks.  There  is  one 
who  at  such  moments  resolves,  with  complete 
sincerity,  to  start  at  one  end  of  the  top  shelf  and  read 
again  all  the  books  in  his  library,  intending  this 
time  really  to  extract  their  true  marrow.  He  takes 
a  clean  sheet  of  paper  and  sets  down  memoranda  of 
all  the  people  he  intends  to  write  to,  and  all  the 
plumbers  and  what  not  that  he  will  call  up  the  next 

[273] 


Pipefuls 

day.  And  the  next  time  this  happy  seizure  attacks 
him  he  will  go  through  the  same  gestures  again  with 
out  surprise  and  without  the  slightest  mortification. 
And  then,  having  lived  a  generation  of  good  works 
since  midnight  struck,  he  summons  all  his  resolution 
and  goes  to  bed. 


[274] 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y 


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